


Dinner & Diatribes

by VivificanousPrime



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Body Modification, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Immigration & Emigration, Kissing, Loving gazes, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Relationship Discussions, Religious Discussion, Sensual Play, Slow Burn, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:28:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24502375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivificanousPrime/pseuds/VivificanousPrime
Summary: With a war potentially on the horizon, Prowl and Jazz are sent to Praxus on behalf of the Autobots to negotiate an alliance with the isolated city-state.Prowl didn't wanted anything to do with the rising revolution in the first place. He certainly doesn't want to reunite with the family who exiled him. But Jazz appears to have made it his life's mission to take him out of his comfort zone and is determined to make the most of their trip.Add that to the growing list of reasons Prowl was falling for him.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl
Comments: 38
Kudos: 101





	1. Prologue: Stay or Leave, I Want You Not to Go

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Work title is from Hozier's "Dinner & Diatribes" and the chapter title is from Dave Matthew's "Stay or Leave".

There were many factors to consider.

First and foremost: his image. Thus far he had done well to maintain a low profile while still climbing the ranks. Many mechs had fought and shoved to receive his level of prestige, so he was proud to say he had become Chief Investigative Enforcer through simple dedication and an honor code. His pristine reputation would do him well in returning home, Prowl was sure.

There was the matter of whether he would even be listened to. The ticket to Praxus was easy to obtain, but to actually be allowed in was a completely different ordeal. Prowl gazed at the shuttle pass in his servo. Such an expensive thing, and all it did was transport him to the gates of his home. There was no contacting ahead; he had already tried to no avail. Prowl would need to rely on the mood of the Gate Keepers and the information his watchers had relayed. It all came back to his reputation. If his watchers had reported to his family his good behavior, and they found the situation in Iacon an adequate reason to return, then perhaps he would be greeted at the border by a loved one and not a gun. 

If more recent events had reached Praxus though…

Prowl vented in frustration. He shut his optics, trying to shut out thoughts of losing everything he had worked so hard to cultivate all because of events he could not control. The ticket was thrown on the counter, and Prowl returned to his stressful packing. 

It would work, he reassured himself. He would get home.

The streets were busy with people rushing about to who-knows-where for who-knows-what reasons. Jazz didn’t see the need for the hurry. He swaggered passed building after building, weaving calmly between the people sweeping by. He could drive, but it was a nice day out, and he felt so light. Despite—or perhaps in spite—of current circumstance. What else was he to do? Their meeting (which it was looking like he would be late for) would discuss all the troubles that plagued them. Right now, there was no reason not to enjoy the nice days Primus gifted them. If things were going the way he was thinking, there wouldn’t be many of these left to soak in. 

So, he walked in a happy daze to the warehouse in lower Iacon their little group of revolutionaries had taken residence in. The large faux wall on the side of the abandoned structure opened at his entry code, and he was greeting by a roomful of friends and like-minded peers. Jazz dazzled them with a customary smile.

“Having a nice morning?” Rachet asked with a smirk. A world of annoyance in that kind, little greeting just oozing with sarcasm. 

Jazz fixed the grump with an overly enthusiastic grin. “I am Ratch! How kind of you to ask!”

“You can’t keep showing up late, afthead.” Ratchet dropped the act and sent him a hard glare. “We set up a time for a reason. Not everyone has a flexible schedule.”

“He’s, like, two breems passed 12th joor, Doc,” Wheeljack chuckled at his lover. “You’re starting to sound like Prowl.”

“As if!” Ratchet huffed with a full body recoil, like the thought of transforming into the Praxian was the worst reformate imaginable. 

The rest of the room consisted of shaking helms and grins at the quite common bickering from the duo. Jazz noted those in attendance. Ratchet and Wheeljack sat in their usual corner, side-by-side, Roller lounging to their left, then meek little Orion Pax, and Blaster—he shot a quick nod to his friend—who had Rewind and Eject deployed so Rewind could chat with, Chromedome…whose partner was conspicuously missing. 

“Where is our new perfectionist?’ he asked. 

Chromedome was the one to snort and pipe up, “Not here.”

“Well, yeah,” Jazz laughed as he made his way to his seat between Pax and Blaster. “Don’t tell me he’s later than me!”

“He’s not coming at all. He bailed.”

Jazz came to a grinding halt. “Bailed?”

“He said he couldn’t get involved,” Orion said, voice a little shy as he looked up at Jazz with sympathy. “I tried to talk to him, but he was quite convinced.”

“When you last see him?”

“Last night.”

Jazz recalled the last time he himself had seen the mech. Yesterday morning was it? Prowl had been short. Uneasy. Like he wasn’t sure what to say or how to say it. He had assumed the enforcer was just a tad overwhelmed and needed time to process everything. It was a lot for Prowl, Jazz figured, to be told he had accidently discovered an undercover organization bent on breaking the current laws, wrong as the laws were. Prowl, though, had seemed to agree that things needed to change; completely bailing didn’t line up. 

The corner of Jazz’s mouth tugged down. “He at work today, Dome?”

“No, at home. We both took time off.”

“Thanks,” Jazz said he turned around to leave. “Ya’ll start without me!”

He didn’t stop to hear any of the protests, even those from Blaster as he got up to stop his friend. Jazz dropped into vehicle mode and took off. 

That Prowl had left his window open was a good sign to Jazz that he was allowed in. He climbed up the side of the apartment as he done numerous times before and swung feet-first into the living room.

Prowl started at the sound, nearly dropping whatever he was holding. 

“Primus! Jazz!” Prowl did not sound the least bit happy at his presence. Great start.

“Just came to check on you,” he swayed as he grinned, trying to look as innocent as possible. “You didn’t show.”

Prowl’s gaze dropped like he was checking his chronometer. “I assume you mean for the meeting. That you are quite late for.”

“That I _invited_ you to,” Jazz countered with a little rock on his peds.

“I told Chromedome to relay my absence.”

“That he did.”

Prowl’s wings hiked up in a ‘V’. The motion gave Jazz a pause. Prowl’s plating… “I will reiterate, then: I will not be in attendance.” …It was backwards! His black sections were painted white and the white sections black. Overall, he looked plain weird. 

“Yeah, no, I got that.” Jazz lifted his hands in a surrender, more than a little distracted by his friend’s change. “Just want to hear from you why.”

“That is a personal matter. Why would you care to know?”

A frown graced Jazz’s features. “…You’re my friend, mech. If you going through something, you can talk to me.”

“I have already decided.”

“Then enlighten me.” He lowered himself on the arm of Prowl’s couch. 

Prowl dropped his wings a fraction in resignation. Jazz would not be leaving without a conversation. 

“This…mess…you and your associates are initiating; it is not something I can become involved in.”

“Yeah, I heard that.”

“That is the extent of it.”

“Prowler—”

“ _Prowl_ ,” he growled.

“—I know it’s a lot. But hear me out—”

“There is nothing more to say, Jazz.” Prowl looked far away. His wings fanned out and sunk, catching the harsh light pouring from the open window Jazz had climbed in from. Trapped in Prowl’s somber glow, Jazz could do nothing past stare at his friend. “I will stop now before I am in too deep to escape.”

As Prowl turned to walk away, Jazz was suddenly reminded that he was holding something. A subspace container by the looks of it.

“You clean up when you’re stressed or something?” It was meant to be joking, but Prowl pulled his field closer to his person, turning Jazz nervous. “Prowler?”

“As I said, I must escape now while I still can,” he said slow and evenly, face lax and void of emotion. 

“You…wait, you’re leaving?”

“This is necessary, Jazz—”

“Where?” Jazz rose to stand closer, but with every step forward, Prowl took one back.

“I have to return home. The state of things here…I can’t…it will ruin me, do you understand?”

“Yes! Believe me, I know.” Jazz stood still. He raised his servos in a pleading motion. “When I first got caught up in this, I got worried what it would do to business. I run the risk of losing the club—my life’s work—if the wrong people find out who my friends are.”

Prowl looked at him as though Jazz had said he was quitting music to become an engineer. “So, you see the position you have placed yourself in and willfully choose to remain?”

“It’s worth it.”

“It really isn’t.”

“To make a better future for everyone, not just me? Yeah, it is.”

Prowl was taken aback. “Your spark is kind, Jazz, but highly irrational.”

“What happened to compassion for others?” Jazz accused.

“It is not for myself that I leave!” It was Jazz’s turn to be struck. Prowl had never raised his voice at him before, so he quieted himself and his stance to allow his friend to speak. Prowl recollected himself, bringing his wings to a higher, more dignified position. “Do you think me that shallow?” he asked with a hollow tone. 

“No,” Jazz said with a strong sense of honesty flooding his outstretched field. “It’s why I don’t get why you’re running.”

Prowl avoided his gaze as he said, “I must keep my family in mind with every decision I make. If I were to stay and help your group reform Iacon, I would bring dishonor to my family.” He fixed his eyes on Jazz. “I would effectively destroy them.”

“How, though?” Jazz stepped closer. “You said you left them, right? So, it don’t matter what you do, then. You’re on your own.” 

Prowl recalled the conversation, an emotion breaking through the façade for just a moment before he looked off again and regained control of his features. “True that I left them, yes, but family ties are not so easily broken.”

“How would they even know what you’re up to if you don’t talk with them?”

Prowl didn’t answer, just shifted uncomfortably from ped to ped, eyes downcast. Jazz recognized the motion as Prowl’s way of saying the topic was one he could not discuss, so Jazz shifted tactics.

“Okay, so don’t get hooked in this—that’s fine, I promise—but what’s keeping you from staying?”

Prowl reset his optics, still not looking up. “I have already come in contact with you and yours. Should your enterprise be exposed, I would be drawn in again by association, quiet as it may be.” Prowl ended his staring contest with the floor to fix Jazz with a serious look. “I will still lose.”

Jazz ran a servo down his faceplates. Prowl was an unyielding force; one he wasn’t certain he could nudge let alone move. 

“I will keep your name out of it. I swear.”

“That is not something you can guarantee.”

“Prowler—”

“Why are you so insistent?” Prowl took another step back.

Jazz’s mouth opened and closed a few times, unsure what to say or how to say it. Shaking his helm, he asked, “Don’t you like it better here?”

Prowl shifted uneasily, shoulders and wings raised. “I am indifferent.”

There was no way he was going to let Prowl feed him scrap. “No, you ain’t. You said yourself: there were reasons you left Praxus. You told me you didn’t mind Iacon.”

“Do you even like it here?”

It was an avoidance tactic, Jazz knew, but if it delayed Prowl’s leaving, he would humor it. “It ain’t bad,” he shrugged.

“Even the inhabitants?” Prowl sounded as though he had found an opening in Jazz’s defenses and was building to his attack. It made Jazz hesitate and search his friend for any indication of what answer he was looking for.

“They got their flaws—”

“They have their opinions and feel justified to share them.” Prowl took another step back.

“I ain’t defending them—”

“How often are you told to return to Polyhex?” 

Jazz invented. “I don’t listen to them anymore.”

“I am told at least once a decacycle to go back home. That Iacon does not want ‘my kind’ here.” Another step.

“I get it, I know! It’s why this movement is so important—”

“And I am ridiculed by your group for being ‘uptight’ or ‘a glitch’.” And another.

“They ain’t gotten to know you, yet—”

“It has been made clear that I am not welcomed. Not by Functionalists, not by anti-Functionalists, not by even my colleagues and peers.” Prowl caught himself, straightening and hardening his features. The way he stared Jazz down seemed so unlike the mech he had come to know. It was emotionless, imposing, and lifeless. “I have overstayed my welcome; recent events have certainly proved that.” Another step back, and Prowl receded into the next room. 

There was no denying what was said. Jazz had experienced it all first-hand: the accusatory looks, the fear and suspicion at the sight of his visor, the rude gestures thrown his way, the clear message that he was not wanted in this highly-esteemed city. He had been on enough walks with him to know Prowl had similar experiences. And he was right. The difference between the two, however, was that Jazz had a support network of people who wanted him, and Prowl did not. 

Jazz didn’t say a word more as Prowl gathered the rest of his things and made to leave the shabby little apartment. 

“I ended my lease, so you need to be out of here by next cycle.” Jazz sat in his spot on the couch and watched as Prowl swept past. The Praxian carried only one bag as the rest he had shoved into subspace. The two stared at one another for a heavy moment, waiting for the other to end the tension. But what more could really be said?

Finally, Prowl broke and moved to the doorway to look himself over in the mirror hung there. The reversed paint job did nothing to complement his frame, Jazz noted, not like his normal self. The now-black plating on his legs, forearms, and chest stood out awkwardly from his now-white joints and abdomen. Even his brilliantly red chevron had been dulled to a near grey. It made him appear boxy despite his sleek, elegant design. 

“What’s up with the wack paint job?” Jazz tried not to sound so somber, but he couldn’t hide his mood. Prowl didn’t give any indication he had heard Jazz speak let alone that he would answer him. His now-white wings hung steady in indifference. “You don’t look like you, Prowler.”

Again, silence with no end in sight. No understandings to be reached. No common grounds to stand on. 

“Prowl,” Jazz began carefully, “why did you leave Praxus?”

It was a question that had been asked innocently the day they had met. Jazz was trying to strike up conversation topics and had asked merely out of curiosity from one immigrant to another. Prowl had stiffened then, as he did now. It was an uncomfortable topic, and Jazz had decided not to bring it up again. 

But this was evidently the end, so why not?

“I am not in a position to make choices, Jazz.” It wasn’t the answer Jazz was hoping for, neither was Prowl’s defeated look. Prowl really believed he was trapped, Jazz realized, and there was nothing more he could do to convince him otherwise.

Without another look, Prowl gathered himself and slipped away.

By the time Jazz had slinked back to the warehouse, the meeting had adjourned, and its occupants were beginning to leave. Roller had pulled him aside and filled him in on recent events, but Jazz wasn’t really absorbing any of it. He stood quiet until Blaster placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“How’d it go with Prowl?” he asked. 

Jazz fixed him with a sarcastic frown, effectively stating how stupid the question was. Blaster mimicked the cue and gave him a pat. “That bad, mech?”

“He ain’t coming back.”

“It’s just how Prowl is,” Chromedome reassured. “He avoids controversy and conflict like it’s rust. He’s a coward, ask anyone at the precinct.”

“Prowl is many things, but a coward is not one of them,” Jazz asserted.

“Did he say anything about spilling?” Roller asked, an edge in his voice.

“And get himself in trouble? He wouldn’t.,” Chromedome assured.

“No! He—,” Jazz reset his vocalizer, “—it’s personal not political.”

“Does he think he’s just going to waltz back into work tomorrow like nothing happened?” Ratchet laughed. 

Jazz in-vented deliberately, avoiding everyone’s gaze. “Not if he don’t go back to work at all, no.”

“…He’s… _bailing_ bailing?” A small hint of sadness laced Chromedome’s words, visor brightening. 

“As in leaving Iacon?” Blaster asked disbelieving. “Where the pit is he gunna go?”

“Where do you think a Praxian is going to run to?” Jazz knew what Ratchet meant—and he was right—but still, he frowned at his friend’s choice of words.

“I was under the impression he wasn’t welcomed back,” Rewind stated, holding up a servo to make sure he was noticed.

“No, I was, too.” Chromedome glanced down at the cassette. “I have never heard him say one good thing about the place!”

“He has his reasons,” Jazz disagreed.

“Like what?” Chromedome asked.

Jazz mulled over their conversation, looking for something to defend his friend’s decision without betraying his trust. It may not have mattered to someone else in his position, but even if he never saw Prowl again, Jazz wouldn’t disclose private details Prowl had entrusted him with. “He said, uh…he said it’s a personal matter.”

“Personal how?” Chromedome pushed, trying to understand his fellow enforcer. “What else did he say?”

“That’s the extent of it,” Jazz huffed.

“That can’t be—”

“Prowl’s personal life is his business,” Blaster interrupted. 

“He just doesn’t make any sense…” Chromedome ran a hand up the back of his helm. 

“Then you didn’t really know him,” Jazz said with a spark of frustration. 

Ratchet caught on to the look. It was one he was familiar with wearing on the rare occasion some idiot insulted Wheeljack in front of him. Sharp eyes, tight lips, and a glare that could easily kill a fool. A thought occurred to him. “Jazz…” The mech addressed look over, gaze softening after meeting his more open stance. “We’ll all miss Prowl.”

“Sure, yeah,” Jazz threw out.

“ _You’ll_ miss Prowl, right?”

Jazz hardened again. “Of course I will.” 

Ah, there was the fight Ratchet was looking for. The doctor smirked. “You made sure to explain that to him then, yes?” At Jazz’s hesitation, Ratchet put his servos on his hips. He was working with a special breed of moron it seemed. “You mean that _you_ wanting him to stick around was _never_ in the conversation?” 

“Not…those exact words.”

“ _Jazz_ —” 

“But he’s got to know that!” Jazz argued, throwing his arms out. “What kind of friend doesn’t want their friends around?”

“Prowl,” Chromedome laughed. “He’s the _densest_ mech I have ever met. Stuff like that goes right passed him; bet he won’t even think of us.”

There was some truth in that, Jazz had to admit. It took spelling out exactly how someone perceived him for Prowl to know how to approach them. Even with people he knew, like Chromedome…and him. 

Of course, Jazz realized, it didn’t matter that they were friends. It didn’t matter that Jazz had gone to his apartment to try and stop him. Prowl would not get—even consider—that he would be missed or wanted in any way by anyone here unless it was explicitly said to him. And it was not. So, he had left…

Ratchet watched as dawning realization rose out of Jazz, alighting his visor and straightening his back. Just one more nudge: “Don’t you happen to know where Prowl is going?” 

Jazz locked optics with Ratchet, mouth a little agape. He closed it, and his whole body tensed with determination. “Yeah, yeah I do.”

It was a perfect day for speeding. The streets were crowded just enough for Jazz’s law breaking to go widely unnoticed by local Enforcers, though Jazz was sure he wouldn’t out-run Prowl’s chastising later. And there would be a later.

In record breaking time, Jazz arrived at Iacon’s transit station. Sure enough, there was one small shuttle set to depart to Praxus in about a joor. Stealing himself, Jazz bought a ticket (to somewhere else, Praxus was fragging expensive!) so he could get inside. Without any packages in his subspace, he was out of security relatively fast with—he checked his chrono—less than half a joor before takeoff. 

Jazz booked it. The shuttle to Praxus was all the way at the end of the corridor with the other low-priority flights. People stepped aside as he rushed past. Jazz processed none of his surroundings short of the numbers labelling the corridor. 

Ten breems.

The hall ended at a dead end. Frantic, Jazz scrutinized the shuttle bay until he spotted the most beautiful sight he had ever seen: Prowl, standing alone on the platform, his door wings catching the afternoon light like a beacon. People milled about nearby, but Jazz was laser-focused on the Praxian. There was a sadness about him as the late afternoon sun sunk into the distant horizon, illuminating his terrible black and white paintjob. It was absolutely stunning. 

He yelled before he could think to stop himself.

“ _Prowler!_ ”

Wings twitched up, their owner searching his neighbors for the source of the call. 

The source answered by barreling into him from behind. 

Prowl grunted and twisted to meet his assailant, freezing on the spot. “ _Jazz?_ ”

“You catching a flight, mech?” A goofy grin played on Jazz’s features, the sun catching in his visor and lighting up his handsome face. Jazz loosened his grip only to adjust them so that he was hugging Prowl front-to-front, tucked under his arms, and had a perfect view of Prowl’s stony face.

“To Praxus, yes, we discussed this already.”

“Funny! I’m going to…ah, I don’t remember what I bought.”

“Our conversation ended,” Prowl fought, frustration building. “There is no more to say.”

“I got loads to talk about!”

“No. My mind remains unchanged.”

The words landed on deaf audios as Jazz tightened his hold on the Praxian, minding the wings. Prowl stiffened in the forced embrace but made no move to be free of it. Testing his chances, Jazz moved to bury his helm in Prowl’s neck. An easy action with the two being the same height. Jazz held him a moment before leaning back to gaze at him. 

“We’re not done, yet. I still got an argument left in me.”

“…And what, pray tell, could that be?”

Jazz made sure to extend his field to his friend and display his honesty. “You’re going to be missed, Prowler.” 

Prowl made an ungraceful face. “I can assure you, no one will.”

“I’m serious.”

“In a few cycles, life will have moved on without my presence. I was not wanted here to begin with, remember?”

“There have been a few misunderstandings, I seen it,” Jazz admitted. “But it’s nothing time and company won’t fix.” He hugged Prowl closer. “ _I_ am going to miss you, though.” 

Prowl’s body language changed. He looked surprised by the admission, but his chassis relaxed a fraction and his wings lowered from their threatened position. He waited for Jazz to elaborate. 

“If you go, mech, that’s it,” Jazz explained. “You don’t talk to your family; I doubt you’d keep up contact with me. Whatever your circumstances are. I couldn’t see you anymore, and Prowler, I just don’t know that I can do that. I got used to having you around, to talking with you, to being your friend. Who else can I talk to about poetry or art? I got music buddies, sure, but you get real art like nobody I ever met! Pit, you get _me_ like nobody I ever met! I’ve become a better person ‘cause of you. Ain’t nobody I’m friends with ever told me off when I’m rude or let me know I stepped over a line. 

And I _like_ you, Prowler. Primus knows how excited I get to see you! To see your face light up at a good deed done, or the way your wings flutter when it’s breezy. And when I can get a smile out of you, mech my day is made!” He smiled, a genuine giddy grin. “I want you not to go.”

Prowl’s pent up stress and anxiety gently ebbed away, leaving him comfortable in Jazz’s embrace, if a little flushed. He was still quite overwhelmed, his door wings refusing to fully drop in ease. Multiple times, he opened and closed his mouth at a loss for words as his optics glanced between Jazz and the shuttle bay. 

“My family,” he spoke softly, “doesn’t make attempts to check on me. They may not even allow me back home after all this, no matter how much praise they used to throw at me before I left. If my own family can’t begin to miss me, how do you expect me to believe that you could?”

Jazz set a determined tone. “I don’t know all of what you been through there, but here? Here I know for certain that you are loved.” He grinned and gave Prowl a little squeeze. “At least by someone.”

“ _Shuttle Bay 874: Iacon Major to District 18. Shuttle arriving. Prepare for boarding._ ” 

The announcement didn’t faze either mech the message pertained to. Jazz kept steady as Prowl seemed caught in turmoil. But he didn’t move away.

There was a lot to consider. If he stayed, there would be repercussions, but what would he really gain by leaving? Prowl conjured memories of home, of the tall, lifeless buildings, his equally lifeless peers, and his loved ones, who had made no attempts to stop him. There had been disagreements, threats to contain him, but in the end he had an easy time walking out Praxus’s gates. He couldn’t deny his belief of keeping home at the core of all things, but looking at Jazz, feeling the way he held him, Prowl doubted for the first time where home really was. 

Because Jazz exhibited no doubts. No glimmer of mischief. No hesitation in his statements. He knew exactly what Prowl meant to him and was acting on his beliefs in a grand show of passion the likes of which Prowl had never encountered.

“ _Shuttle Bay 874: Iacon Major to District 18. Shuttle landing. Prepare for boarding._ ”

“Do you really…” Prowl’s gazed dropped, searching for the words. “You really want me to stay?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. No doubts.

Prowl finally lifted his arms to return the hug, and Jazz took full advantage of the opening to pull him closer. The Praxian bowed his wings and moved to rest his head on Jazz, who leaned in to meet him.

The two remained that way—helms resting together cheek-to-cheek, in a tight embrace, optics shutting out the world—as a shuttle docked nearby. No one made to board.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you recognize this first chapter, it's a one-shot I reposted here. This fic is a continuation of that plotline, so I opted for reposting than asking readers to go on a search. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you think! I love kind feedback!
> 
> Stay safe everyone!


	2. Mustering Some Tender Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking place a few months (orns) after the prologue, Jazz and Prowl are sent out on a trip.
> 
> Title is from a line in Hozier's "Foreigner's God".

Jazz had tried to piece together Orion Pax’s reasoning. It was a lot like faith, trusting him, doubts and questions included.

Prowl’s role he understood, it was more what the Pit he was doing that he had trouble getting. As good as he was with people, Jazz had never considered himself much of a diplomate or negotiator. He could charm a mech, sure, but talking politics? That was saved for another day. His business with the Autobots more of a passion project. And while he beamed at the praise, Jazz didn’t really believe Orion thought him a great cultural navigator.

Maybe it was his thing with Prowl? More often than not, any offensive or rude comment coming from the Praxian was entirely unintentional and because of a culture difference. And Jazz would say as much. Perhaps Orion got the impression he was some know-it-all with Praxus customs? Still, Jazz doubted he had any real qualifications for the job. After taking over the senator’s place as head of the Autobots, Orion Pax had made some out-of-the-box decisions, but this for sure topped the charts as just straight wack.

But Jazz would be lying if he said he wasn’t excited.

He didn’t hide the bounce in his step as he and Prowl left the shabby warehouse the Autobots met up in. Confused as he was, Jazz opted to shove it aside in favor of elation.

They were going to Praxus! _The_ Praxus! The one known for fabulous crystal gardens and the softest fabrics. A place unobtainable to anyone without the proper doorwings—unless, of course, you were there for the politics.

Jazz snuck a glance to his partner. Prowl was wearing his usually resting-bored face, but Jazz was getting pretty good at reading him better. He could see the finer details, like the stiff plating under the optics, the tight mouth, the dimmed eyes, that proved Prowl was anything but calm.

It was well-known to Jazz at this point that the Praxian was avoiding his home. He had never elaborated, and Jazz didn’t ask. But he knew from the moment Orion had shared his idea of opening talks with the sovereign city-state that this would take a toll on Prowl’s emotions.

He dazzled Prowl with a smile, hoping to ease his worries. The Praxian rewarded him with one of his barely-there grins, the ones that made him look subtly mischievous. It gave Jazz’s spark a little more spin.

Whatever Orion’s reason for suggesting him to tag along, Jazz didn’t plan on wasting the opportunity to be there for his partner.

There was far more involved with the preparations for their excursion than Jazz, or anyone else for that matter, seemed to realize. Their shuttle was scheduled to take off in a little less than a cycle, just barely enough time. Plating needed to be painted, accessories sorted, garments packed, etc., etc. He elected to make a list for both his sanity and Jazz’s.

Prowl had to give his partner quality points, though; Jazz was very willing to help him in his packing despite his outspoken confusion on what there was to do aside from grabbing a “go bag”. As a bit of a reward, Prowl made sure the first task would be enjoyable.

Two containers of paint, one black and the other white, were set on a tarp in the middle of Prowl’s apartment. Jazz had suggested the washroom, but he quickly drowned the idea. Along with insinuating a number of outcomes counter intuitive to being covered in wet paint, his lease on the apartment was short. After his near impulsive decision to leave Iacon some orns ago, Prowl had gone from living on Jazz’s couch to renting out inexpensive, short-term residences. So, the last thing he needed was his deposit being denied because the paint refused to wash out of the tiles.

He paused his thoughts on how best to proceed to check on Jazz. It was something Prowl had taken a while to notice; Jazz constantly shot him quick little looks, either of encouragement or happiness or other emotions Prowl couldn’t name yet. Prowl made it a point to return the favor, to check in on his partner routinely for his quirk updates. At the moment, Jazz was grinning bright enough to light the living room. It brightened even more as Prowl turned to face him.

“You recall my previous repaint?” he asked.

Jazz’s smile twisted into something snarky. “You mean that weird-aft reverse you tried to pull off?”

“Yes, that,” Prowl huffed, recalling his quick alteration before his attempt to flee. “I plan on this session having a better outcome.”

“Yeah, me too,” he sang, bouncing in place on his peds.

Prowl eyed him pointedly but let his mouth relax into a smile. “While this will not be unenjoyable, it will not be progressing that far.”

“Don’t plan on it, Prowler! I promise you, I can have fun with a little touching.”

“And painting.”

“Yeah, no promises there on quality. I can sing, I can dance, but Primus stopped there with giving me talents,” Jazz laughed.

“I challenge that.” Prowl reached down to grab the both of them brushes. “Top to bottom, yes?”

“That’s the way I always done it,” Jazz said, walking over to accept his offered brush. Prowl couldn’t prove it, but he was sure the “accidental” touch to his hand was intentional. “Black parts first, then we switch to the white?”

“Yes, I agree.”

They settled on the floor, Prowl sitting on his peds as Jazz hobbled around him on his knees, discussing the various sections that could be left alone, like his helm and calf plating, before they began.

The paint was cool and smooth to apply. Despite his obvious energy moments before, Jazz calmed once he began coating his shoulder in black. Prowl appreciated the sight of Jazz being so near and so focused before getting to work on his chest. He meant to set aside any anxieties surrounding the situation he placed them in but found there were no doubts or discomforts to ignore. There was nothing but trust. Nothing but sounds of brush work and engines purring.

Eventually, Jazz gained confidence in his skills, enough to prove just why Prowl thought the experience would be pleasant. It started slow. Jazz held his arm in more of a caress, then tested his luck with a seam, then the joint. The further down his arm Jazz traveled, the more sensual he became. A peck to his servo signaled Jazz was finished with the limb, and he moved to do the same to the other. Prowl could only grin at his antics.

Prowl busied himself with his torso and hips, rising to his knees for a better reach and needing to alternate hands as Jazz did his own sections. When he finally stood to do his legs, Jazz planted himself on the ground before him. Legs wrapped loosely around a ped, and Prowl had to spread a little farther to accommodate the mech under him. The position afforded Jazz closer access to his helm as Prowl bent to paint his thighs. If the glint in his visor was any indication, it was a deliberate move. The first few times he glanced over, Jazz would shoot him a suggestive look or rev his engines. His enthusiasm apparently became more than he could handle as his sly charm morphed into fits of giggles the more Prowl side-eyed him. It was becoming harder to hide his own smile.

With a shift to white came a different shift in Jazz’s demeaner. Coy and playful became downright attractive. Jazz didn’t hand him back his brush, electing instead to finish the project on his own. It was a careful thing to find the dry black plating and run his hands down them. Prowl let his engine ideal, rumbling under Jazz’s hands. With every attempt Prowl made to reach out, Jazz only batted away his hands.

They had explored before, mostly in cuddling or leaning into one another, but this was a new kind of sensation. There was the newness of unsure hands seeking to please, the hesitant devotion in not wanting to overstep, the irregular tones as Jazz tested where he wanted to take things. Prowl allowed his partner to lead, to test his certainty in the mech he was considering a life with. For all that he touched and pleasured, Jazz stayed a safe distance from his pelvis and didn’t dare go near his wings. Thus far, Jazz was scoring a significant number of quality points. He fluttered his wings in a pleased beat.

Their moment paused as Jazz finished his front. He stepped back to scan Prowl’s frame, checking for any errors or blemishes. The gaze lasted longer than Prowl deemed necessary, though. Curious, he watched as Jazz’s face morphed from flush to thoughtful. He thinned his grin, tilted his helm.

Prowl braced for the questions of why he would ever dawn such an unflattering paintjob, but they never came.

“So, you wanna paint your aft or me?” Jazz asked instead.

Prowl blinked away his confusion. “It would be easier if you would. If you are comfortable, that is.”

“Yeah, no, I got you.” Jazz moved behind him, bending down to walk on his knees to avoid an accidental brush of a wing. Jazz reverted to a professional, painting the white as efficiently as he could and earning himself more points. “Seems a bad idea to change here.”

“To the white? Yes, it is a nuisance.”

“Yeah! Like what if you wanna sit somewhere?”

“I either stand or find a cleaner location,” Prowl explained. “It is not quite the problem there as it is here.”

“When’d you decide to scrub it off?”

“Shortly after my move.”

“So this is a Praxus thing more than a Praxian thing?”

“More like this is a ‘me thing’.”

“Oh,” Jazz responded. He thought for a moment before speaking up again. “So, I don’t need to switch it up, then?”

Prowl hiked his wings in a shocked confusion. “No—no, you are fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, you have your colors in the correct places.”

The painting slowly stopped. Prowl could sense Jazz still behind him, could “see” in his own way through his doorwings Jazz pondering the explanation on the floor.

But this was not something that Jazz was going to understand within the cycle, and Prowl didn’t care to linger on the subject of his body imperfections any more than they already had. Jazz appeared to receive a que and moved away to stand up again.

“I can whiten my wings,” Prowl said.

Jazz held up the brush to him, relief clearly drawn on his features. That was one area that had taken so little explaining, and Prowl lingered his thoughts on his appreciation of the similarity. Jazz had his eyes, Prowl had his wings. Both required a certain level of closeness to obtain access.

They busied themselves, Prowl finishing his paintjob as Jazz collected all the items on the list. Occasionally, Jazz would ask what something was or where to find it. Prowl allowed his processor to analyze their communication skills. Jazz asked after a listed item, Prowl answered, and the results there after were mixed.

Communication, Prowl concluded as Jazz helped him clean their painting area. There were areas to improve upon if they were to operate as one unit, he thought as they exchanged farewells and Jazz left for the night. There were always imperfections, always obstacles to overcome, he reasoned with himself as he paced the small apartment, avoiding the communicator.

Like practicing patience or communicating.

Like relinquishing hurt and pride to return home.

It was one of those crisp mornings in Iacon. The kind that make you actually want to get out of recharge in time to watch the sunrise. Pure luck since they didn’t have much of a choice.

Jazz was watching their things in the shuttle bay at the far end of the transit station. Well, he was watching the sun rise behind the other side of the hall. Their stuff was safely tucked between his legs, protected from the handful of people near the terminal.

He also happened to have a fantastic view of the indoor venders and a certain Praxian negotiating with one. Prowl, Jazz was not surprised to learn, was _not_ a morning person. Sure, he was always ready on time—which for him meant being five breems early—but he wasn’t really all there, yet.

Doorwings hung low, like they weighed as much as the rest of Prowl did. Their situation gave Prowl an odd slump where he leaned his chest and shoulders forward but a bend at the waist kept his center of gravity where it should be. Subtle little changes, but they stood out to Jazz. His partner usually kept his expression blank, but now it looked as though the weight of the world rested in the corners of Prowl’s eyes and mouth. The look gave Prowl an overall mood of a mix between dreading-this and forgot-to-sleep.

And really, Jazz couldn’t blame him. Prowl had explained on the drive that, after Jazz had left, he had gotten in touch with his creators. Orion Pax had explained to them that he had been in communication with ambassadors from Praxus, arranging a schedule and transportation. The draw back was that the ambassadors had insisted that if an Autobot Praxian was going to attend the negotiations, then he would have to stay in his own house. Prowl had seemed so offended that he would reside anywhere else in Praxus, but Jazz knew that calling up his creators was anything but easy.

So, he tried to make light of it.

“You got wake up juice, Prowler?” Jazz sang to his approaching partner.

Prowl simply hummed in response, taking a long sip at the warmed, laced energon. He hadn’t said much past his explanation for sleepiness, and Jazz was starting to guess that Prowl was one of those who needed a joor in the mornings to relearn how to function.

Jazz let his gaze linger, soaking in Prowl in all his glory. It was exciting, really, to think if things went well, he could get even more iconic Prowl faces few others would ever have the chance to see.

“ _Shuttle Bay 874: Iacon Major to District 18. Shuttle landing. Prepare for boarding._ ”

Jazz shook himself at the sound of the announcement overhead. He twisted around to face the runway as their transporter started descending. It was always a mesmerizing sight to watch a flyer in action, cutting through the atmosphere with such a natural talent.

The sounds of gears turning and straining had him twisting back to Prowl, though. Prowl was doing his cute stretching thing, pulling his wings as high as they could go as he stretched the rest of his frame before releasing his tensions. The action made him scrunch up his face and let out little involuntary noises. Jazz was sure he wouldn’t appreciate him drawing attention to his less-than-stoic expression, but he couldn’t help his giggle. Prowl’s glare only had him going harder. But he composed himself as the shuttle landed, and they both gathered their few belongings.

“How are you doing today, mech?” Jazz asked the shuttle, patting the entryway in greeting.

“Pretty fine, thank you,” the shuttle responded with an earnest gratitude.

“Beautiful morning!”

“Aye, that it is.”

“You got a name, my friend?” Jazz asked as he and Prowl—the only people on route to Praxus, evidently—settled in a spot by a window.

“Call me ‘Chopper,” the shuttle said. “There’s another flyer in the station by the same name, Skychopper. So that’s what I go by.”

“He the one from Tyger Pax?”

“Aye! You know him?”

“Nah, but I met him once at my club. He was going by his Vosian name though.”

“Ah, that slagger’s never even flown over Vos,” ‘Chopper mocked, closing his door to begin take off.

“Heard he was a bit of an aft,” Jazz laughed.

‘Chopper joined in, but at the sound of an alert, said, “Oi, I have to quiet during the flight, so I’ll pipe up updates but can’t chat till we land.”

“Yeah, no problem, ‘Chopper! Talk to you in Praxus!”

“Course!” he agreed.

Prowl sat next to Jazz looking more than a little disoriented. He looked from the window, to the shuttle’s interior frame, to Jazz, puzzled.

“You good, there, Prowler?” Jazz clasped Prowl’s knee, giving it a little shake.

Prowl stared at the floor, searching for words. “You—you make friends with anything.”

Jazz laughed at the still-sleepy reply. “Well, it pays to be kind, don’t it?”

“No,” Prowl said slowly but backtracked. “Not in credits. Yes in…life.”

“Babe,” Jazz shook his head, snickering, “sip your drink.”

Prowl replied with a dismissive noise, lowering his wings, but he did as suggested and took a long draw at his energon. As ‘Chopper began lifting into the air, Prowl leaned on Jazz’s shoulder, venting nervously.

The entire flight would take most of the solar-cycle, giving them more than enough time to wake up and review their negotiation tactics.

An alliance between the rising Autobots and the sovereign Praxians was a worthwhile venture for both parties involved. The world was changing rapidly, and war was becoming more and more of a possibility every decacycle. Should the worse outcomes prevail, the Autobots would require a network of resources to stand a chance at survival. Iacon could potentially fall—not particularly likely—or even refuse to recognize their organization as legitimate—far more likely. Having other means of supplying their people with energon, medical supplies, and all other necessities would be their saving grace, and Praxus was the perfect place to start.

Prowl had been uneasy when his home was listed as the first to initiate talks with. Praxus had never been a part of the grander Cybertronian government given its origins in ancient Vos. There was never a point in their history when Praxus joined any city-state for any reason, aside from their sister city, Vos. Wars had been fought, famines endured, and Praxus had watched it all unfold from the comfort of their borders. It was an impenetrable place with a people suited to match. An alliance with them would be out of the question, at least as far as Prowl could believe.

The more Orion explained it, the more doubt had crept into his certainties. The idealist had made a strong point: never before had a conflict ensued that had concerned Praxus until now.

That was their main argument. Praxus prided itself on its success in equality and self-sufficiency. Now, with the rhetoric that diversity was to be acknowledged and wealth-sharing encouraged, Praxus would come under fire. Their “equality” and manner of achieving it would be scrutinized. He and Jazz just needed to convince Praxus that the Autobots would refrain from judging as the High Council and the emerging Decepticon faction did. They were isolated, physically and socially, and Prowl could see more clearly the opening Orion spoke of and the opportunities that came with it. If Praxus could be convinced to join the Autobot alliance, then so could Vos. With both Praxus and Vos, they would have Crystal City, Tyger Pax, Polyhex…one by one Cybertron could be joined in their cause.

Such politics did not appear to interest Jazz. Over and over, Prowl explained the socio-political dynamics that created Cybertron’s complex system of enemies and allies and how they would exploit them, but all Jazz did was frown.

“Where are you becoming confused?”

“I ain’t confused, babe, just exhausted with it.”

“It is important we both understand every aspect of our position if we are to sway an historically isolated nation to align themselves with us.”

“No, no, I get it,” Jazz waved his hands in front of him like his was gesturing Prowl to step back. “I just need a break from it.”

Prowl eyed him, searching for any tells. Jazz had a short attention span depending on the subject matter. When they had first met, the irregularity of it had bothered him in many ways, and he was so sure the mech chose when to lose the ability to retain information. Now, he was working to be more understanding. Jazz legitimately could not focus on particular tasks, and on others, he had a limit.

Mouth hanging loosely in a frown. Arms spread lax across the back of the seats. Body sinking further and further to the floor. With a huff, Prowl had to concede.

“A change of topics, then?” he asked, stowing away the data pads in their cases at his peds.

“Sure!” Jazz didn’t immediately perk up, but Prowl did note his aft gradually sliding back up into his seat. “Tell me about the people.”

Prowl quirked an optic ridge. “The people of Praxus?”

“Yeah! Like what they like?”

Prowl rustled his wings. “Most have a high appreciation for beautiful things.”

“Neat to know,” Jazz nodded, “but I meant like what kind of people are they?”

“Alive ones.”

Jazz burst into an incredulous laugh. “Well I should hope so!”

“What else am I supposed to say?” Prowl asked, genuinely at a loss for how he was expected to explain a culture so vastly different from the ones Jazz had been exposed to. “For someone so tired of discussing Praxus you are certainly not changing the subject.”

“Alright,” Jazz falsely relented. “But really, what should I know going in?”

Prowl shifted in his seat again, mulling through the numerous ways an outsider was likely to offend someone. He drew in his features at the overwhelming odds of everything going wrong. There just wasn’t the time to explain who you could and could not speak to, who to bow to, or how to greet family. There were subtle nuances he couldn’t begin to put words to and people he could soil Jazz’s impressions of with a description.

Prowl mulled over the best possible way to condense the culture in a way Jazz might understand, at least to some degree. “In short,” Prowl concluded, “be respectful and use expensive words.”

“Okay.” Jazz tilted his helm in thought. “Act high class, that I can do.”

“Wonderful,” he said with a measure of relief.

“What about personal questions?”

“What?”

“What I say if someone asks me what I do or where I come from? Or more importantly,” Jazz tapped his visor, “am I gunna be interrogated?”

“Concerning your religion? I should think not.” Prowl then considered the people they were likely to come in contact with. “Most should not outright insult or criticize you, especially not the ambassadors we will meet,” Prowl conceded. “No, most people will be noninvasive. Not all though…”

“So some might have an issue or ask me things?”

“My family is who I am most concerned with.” Prowl looked passed Jazz to the far wall behind him. “They may press you on a multitude of matters.”

“No, I get it. I’ve got to be pretty different to people over there.”

“I just ask you do not associate their behaviors with what I would consider acceptable.”

“Of course not, Prowler.” Warmth flooded a section of his thigh, and Prowl looked down to see Jazz’s hand resting on his plating. “I think I got a good idea of the person you are.” Prowl spared a glance at the smile Jazz offered him, his spark nervously spinning faster at the sight.

“They will interrogate you on your connection to me,” Prowl elaborated, resting his own hand atop Jazz’s. “On my ‘friendship’ with you.”

He couldn’t see his optics, but Prowl could feel Jazz peering into him. “You and me being any more than casual or just plain coworkers ain’t something they’d take well.”

Prowl nodded. “Correct. So any physical contact between us must remain out of sight.”

“Gotcha,” Jazz nodded. “So we going with friends or just coworkers?”

“Friendly coworkers, perhaps?” Prowl suggested, then considered the implications. “It might also be wise not to address the fact that the Autobots are not a legitimate branch of the government. I cannot be affiliated with anti-Functionalist revolutionaries.”

“Now how you think we’re gunna do that?” Jazz asked, incredulous.

“Simple,” Prowl answered. “We do not mention it.”

The conversation was leaning into an uncomfortable territory. Even outside of Praxus, even safe in Cybertron’s atmosphere, Prowl still felt as though he were under someone’s control. His freedom was simply an illusion he constructed himself, one he too often basked in despite his awareness. It was easier on the mind to lend his thoughts to other matters.

“You will enjoy our schedule,” Prowl said, breaking the thick silence.

“Only you would ever suggest that,” Jazz laughed, lulling his helm to aim a characteristic grin at him.

“We have time to ourselves amidst the meetings and time spent with my family.”

Jazz shifted so he rested his chin in his hand, arm supported on the back of the seat. “Alone time, huh?”

“Indeed,” Prowl rumbled, glad to have at least one aspect of their trip to look forward to. He bent down to grab the pad containing their schedule and rearranged to sit facing his partner.

It was easy to forget, drowning one’s self in a mindless task. Prowl read off their list of activities but failed at truly retaining anything. Jazz didn’t appear to be paying much attention either. His helm moved slightly up and down, his eyes likely raking his frame. It wasn’t rare Jazz stared appreciatively at his body, but this instance seemed different. As though Jazz was not eyeing him but searching for a flaw.

Prowl could guess just what his partner was wondering. He had decidedly failed in explain just why it was they needed to change his frame so drastically. Jazz would understand more eventually, but for now, what was Prowl to say? That he was in the wrong for looking the way he did? It was ludicrous to anyone not suffocating in the standards perfection demanded. There was really no use wasting energy to explain a social experience.

So, Prowl left Jazz to ponder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you think!
> 
> Stay safe everyone!


	3. Like An Odd Sight Come Out at Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl and Jazz land in Praxus, and Jazz gets a sense of why Prowl left.
> 
> Chapter title from Hozier's "Movement".

It was like nothing Jazz had ever seen.

Large expanses of land were segmented by streams and forests of crystals. From their aerial view, the patterns flowed together in a slow dance of nature. Greys contrasted with brilliant blues. The entirety of Cybertron seemed to have changed its dynamics from harsh city life to the peace of seclusion.

Jazz became aware of something maneuvering passed his ped. It was then he realized that in his haste to reach the window, he had gotten in the way of Prowl and his travel case.

“Hey, sorry Prowler,” Jazz said as he climbed onto what had been Prowl’s seat to sit on his heels. “Need me or anything?”

“No, you were fine,” Prowl dismissed. “I have what I need in here. What do you see?” Prowl set the case aside to kneel behind Jazz and look over his shoulder out the window.

“Only a sight worthy of my top ten things to see!”

“Is it really that remarkable?”

“People don’t always ruin a place,” Jazz reminded him

“No, yes, I recall the conversation,” Prowl clarified, voice close enough to alert Jazz’s sensory horns in a pleasant little buzz. “I mean to say that this is a drastically different environment than any close to Iacon, so I was unsure how you would perceive it.”

“Stunning. I ‘perceive it’ as stunning.” Jazz turned to grin at him and nearly smacked his face into Prowl’s chin. For someone who acted the prude, Jazz was slowly realizing his partner existed on only the two extremes of closeness. Though, he thought, better that Prowl have no concept of personal space than Jazz needing to beg for cuddles.

As if to prove his point, the closeness was quickly missed as Prowl pulled away. Bored of the sights probably. Jazz wondered briefly how many times Prowl had seen these crystal spires or the smooth streams of mercury and if anyone could ever tire of it.

Jazz turned away from the window as the wildlife changed back to city life. Whatever Prowl was grabbing from his case was far, far more interesting. He had removed a large fabric item Jazz remembered packing the previous night. It was smooth between the digits, sliding effortlessly across metal. Now in the better lighting, the color was exotically captivating. It caught the light and threw it about the space in a subtle rainbow effect. It was simultaneously every color and a shiny grey. Prowl lifted it, turning it around until he found what he was searching for. Grasping two places, Prowl spread it out in the air to show him.

“It is a type of garment,” Prowl explained. “I will be expected to wear it during our stay.”

Jazz raised himself from his crouch on the seat to stand in front of the fabric. “You wear it?”

“Yes. It covers parts of my doorwings and chassis.” Prowl lowered his hold to hand a section to Jazz. “If you would assist?”

“Course!” Jazz grabbed the offered end, arranging it in his hands to appreciate the smooth feel of it.

At Prowl’s direction, he draped his end over the Praxian’s left shoulder and connected a magnetized bit to a panel of shoulder plating Prowl couldn’t reach. Then did the same to his right. More magnets were attached to various places along his back and sides so that the fabric fell across his wings, splitting in the middle into three panels to spill down them and hover above the floor. The draped panels in the back connected to his sides, overlapped by the panels in the front.

The overall effect was nothing short of processor stalling. The lightness of the fabric gave the impression Prowl was gliding as he moved. It covered his wings such that any movement they made was dramatized by the billowing of the garment. His chassis looked curvier, his chest and shoulders broader. Jazz felt his energon rising to his cheeks. And other places he tried not to think about.

“It’s a…cape. I believe that is the closest translation.”

Jazz made something like an affirmative noise, not really paying attention.

Prowl bent over to organize their belongings, explaining as he worked. “The elite wear them, primarily. They are rather expensive given the quality of the fabrics…”

He was about to clock out. With every move Prowl made, the garment shone, highlighting and extenuating. But as he gazed, questions began to form about the practicalities of the outerwear. Not to say Jazz minded that Prowl wore it, but the fabric did seem to get in the way of his movements as he packed.

“How you going to transform around that, Prowler?”

His partner cycled his vents, rustling the fabric near them, and looked at him like he was already done with their little adventure. “You don’t.”

Jazz was about to follow up on that when ‘Chopper chimed in for the first time in joors.

“We’re ten breems out from the landing, so I have to ask you to take your seats.”

“Sure thing,” Jazz replied, moving to sit again next to Prowl, who reclaimed his spot by the window.

The landing was as smooth as the take off had been, only now Prowl was far more awake. He shifted awkwardly, fidgeting with an edge of his garment, looking like he was searching for the answers to life in the threads he picked at. There wasn’t much Jazz could think of doing to ease his nerves aside from taking the fidgeting hand in his own. Prowl hesitated in the small hold before turning over his hand to squeeze his.

“Landing successful. You’re free to move about,” ‘Chopper said. “Enjoy your stay in Praxus!”

“Thanks, mech!” Jazz replied. “You the one coming to pick us up in a few cycles?”

“I won’t know a thing about next decacycle’s schedule till tomorrow, sorry.”

“No worries!” Jazz exclaimed as he let go of Prowl’s hand to help him grab their belongings and head to the entryway. “Have a nice day, mech!”

“You as well!”

The shuttle’s door lowered, revealing three Praxians standing wingtip-to-wingtip underneath a magnificent arch of metal laced with crystal. It took everything in him not to stare off at the landing bay rather than maintain eye contact. Sure, the visor lent Jazz a glance here and there at their surroundings, but he could only see so far without turning his head. There were gates matching the shape of the arch, that much he could see, along with imposing border walls jutting out from them. Likely spanning the entirety of the city.

The three mechs made no attempts to meet the pair halfway. Instead, they stood deathly still with the barest expressions Jazz had ever seen. They each wore capes similar to Prowl’s, but they lacked the same grace. All these seemed to accomplish was showing off some kind of status rather than the shapes of their frames. The garments didn’t do much of anything to differentiate between them either. They were essentially identical save for their paintjobs.

When they finally reached the mechs, Prowl did a small bow, fanning his wings out, before addressing them in his native language. A pretty melody, Jazz thought, filled with subtle ups and downs of tone. The three other Praxians bowed back and exchanged greetings with Prowl. He let his partner handle the pleasantries, opting to speak only when spoken to, hard as it was.

“Jazz, Representative of the Autobots,” Prowl introduced, suddenly switching tongues. “Jazz, these are the Ambassadors to the Council of Praxian Law.” Prowl sounded just like he looked: pretty but far off from what Jazz considered _him_. The accent seemed almost faked despite how naturally he used it. But he quickly shoved the thought aside to rest among other curious matters.

Jazz bowed his head to the three mechs. “I thank you and yours for allowing us to visit your lovely city,” he said, mustering in his clearest voice the greeting he had practiced over and over on the flight.

One of the ambassadors, the red and white one, flicked his doorwings. To anyone not in close contact with a winged friend, the movement may have gone unnoticed, but Jazz was getting better at “wing speak”. He didn’t claim to know much, but he had seen enough of Prowl to know that twitching them like so meant the mech was perturbed.

Well slag. He wasn’t even two breems in.

“I recommend,” the twitchy ambassador spoke up, “that you either tone down the accent or forgo it entirely, if you are capable. It should make communication far easier, yes?”

It took a moment to decipher what was said. The mech spoke fast and like he had something lodged in his vocal cords keeping him from jumping any octaves. By the time the words did finally sink in, Prowl was already speaking.

“I can assure you the change will be addressed. Suppressed, if the need arises.”

“Good on you,” said a different ambassador, this one green and white. He turned to Jazz, giving him a curt nod. “Welcome to Praxus.”

Jazz smiled smartly and nodded back.

The third mech, who was an unflattering blue hue, said something to Prowl in Praxis before all three turned to stalk off.

“Follow them, he said,” Prowl translated, leaning over to speak soft enough no one else could hear him.

Schooling his emotions, Jazz allowed two nearby Praxians (not wearing fancy capes, he noticed) to carry their things for him and followed Prowl passed the threshold. Beyond the archway was a city set on fire. Crystals spiraled into the sky, capturing the sunlight from above to distribute its warmth to those below. Magnificent towers resembling none of the architecture Jazz had ever witnessed glowed alongside the crystals.

It was all so much to take in, and Jazz believed he would have remained there at the gates gawking had Prowl not guided him forward.

They approached a rather large ground vehicle parked a few paces from the border. As everyone piled in, Jazz turned around, hearing the sounds of powerful jet engines. He watched from the back of the vehicle what he could of ‘Chopper speeding off toward Iacon through closing gates. With a boom as the two gates met, the rest of Cybertron was blocked from view.

“Jazz,” Prowl called, tapping him on the shoulder. He turned back around and, at Prowl’s gesture, climbed in after the ambassadors.

He patted the door frame as he stood and sought out an empty seat. “Hi! How are you doing?”

No reply.

As Jazz sat down at one end of the semicircle of seats, he noticed all three ambassadors forgoing their blank expressions to look at him like he was an alien. Prowl sat himself across from him, completely oblivious.

Jazz glanced between his partner and the other Praxians. He reset his vocalizer, trying for his best impression of the accent from the little he had heard. “I usually greet the people driving me around,” he explained.

“By way of the doorframe?” the green mech asked, deadpanned despite the choice of words.

Jazz wasn’t really sure how to answer that. “Well, that is where you go in.”

He glanced back over at Prowl, who seemed to finally catch on that there was a conversation involving him going on. Jazz watched as realization dawned on him.

“We are not inside someone, Jazz,” Prowl clarified. The ambassadors turned their disbelieving stares to Prowl, prompting further explanation in Praxis.

Jazz, meanwhile, stewed in a concoction of confusion and embarrassment. Confusion at the situation, embarrassment at looking like a crazy person. But he couldn’t think of a time he was ever transported by anything other than a living, functioning person. To be in hollow, unfearing walls sent nerves tingling down his spinal strut.

“Jazz,” Prowl called, dragging him out of his state of unease. “I will show you how the machine operates when we exist.”

He nodded, but his nerves didn’t leave him. The view of the unfamiliar city, he thought, might at least distract him. But disappointed was all he found as the windows were too high and too narrow to see out without kneeling on the seats.

All there was to do was stew.

The drive was, fortunately, short, though spent in silence. At least on Jazz’s part. Neither Prowl nor the three ambassadors spoke aside from an infrequent comment, all of which was said in Praxis.

Needless to say, Jazz was more than a little eager when the transport stopped. It took a great deal of self-discipline to stay seated as the doors opened, but he waited for Prowl to take the lead.

As Prowl helped him step out of the vehicle, Jazz nearly fell on him. His first impressions of the city aesthetics he believed had prepared him for whatever else was to come. But Jazz was very wrong. Prowl’s house was not, in fact, a house. It was a fragging _mansion_. It didn’t look like a place someone lived, it was a place built to host high class musicians and artists. Crystals not unlike those at the city entrance were laced into the metal work of the structure in vibrant blue pillars. Beams and intricate designs flowed across the house in a sophisticated manner, sacrificing flourish for optic-pleasing.

Jazz barely registered a conversation behind him. It probably didn’t matter whether he paid attention, anyway, he reasoned. None of the three officials had bothered to introduce themselves and didn’t appear to care for speaking a language he knew. Whatever they needed him to know, Prowl would relay it to him.

Prowl walked over to stand just behind him saying in a hushed tone, “I’ll show you the transports later, then.”

Jazz just shook his head. “Mech, you did _not_ tell me you were royalty.”

“That is because I am not.”

“You seen where you lived?” Jazz made a grand gesture to the obnoxiously large estate.

Prowl replied with a hum, fixing his servos behind his back in preparation. An unreadable expression played across his face. Jazz snapped himself out if his daze, reminding himself that a fancy house didn’t mean a lack of negativity.

Prowl didn’t like stupid questions, so he didn’t ask if Jazz was ready to meet his family, he just started walking. Jazz fell easily in step a stride behind.

One of the double doors to the house began opening, pushed by a Praxian femme. She was sleek, like most femme frames, with long, narrow doorwings contrary to Prowl’s broad ones. When she turned to face her back to the door, Jazz noted her odd crest. All other Praxians thus far had similar chevrons as Prowl, but hers was a single helm fin. He thought it complemented her design, though. Sleek, trim, and fierce.

Once they were close enough, Jazz gave the femme a little wave. “Thank you! How are you doing?”

The femme locked her gaze to the ground. By the way her wings tremored and her plating tightened, Jazz realized immediately he had frightened her.

He stopped and looked to Prowl for some form of help. “She has no idea what I said, could you translate or something?”

“It’s fine, Jazz. She—” Prowl searched for his words. When he could find none, he cycled his vents and spoke something in Praxis to the shaken femme. She seemed perplexed but bowed in thanks anyway. “She’s fine, just confused,” Prowl explained, sneaking a quick squeeze to his servo.

Jazz nodded away his wince. He let Prowl lead him into the entryway that opened to a spacious living room, complete with couches and seating arranged for entertaining.

The style of the interior matched the exterior in a way Blaster would have described as “safe”. It was all very pleasing to the optics, but nothing seemed to demand the same respect and attention as the exterior design.

He followed readily as Prowl made his way to the center of the spacious living room where three other Praxians were standing to greet them.

Jazz couldn’t help but smile at the small group. The four complemented one another such that the relation was impossible to deny. One was vibrant in a way Prowl could never hope to be with a bright gleam in his optics and a blue color scheme to match. But they moved with the same controlled power that had drawn Jazz to Prowl.

The other two looked like an in between, like two cohesive melds of Prowl and the blue mech. There was power in their movements as well. It could be seen in the way they lifted their wings in greeting. In the way they each approached them. But unlike Prowl, the two seemed to be aware of their auras and were willing to wield it.

Prowl dipped forward, presenting his doorwings to his family in a slow bow, but none of them made to respond. The tension hung there in the air thick enough to choke neck cables.

Eventually, Prowl rose and motioned to him in an elegant fashion. “This is Jazz,” Prowl introduced, “a Representative for the Autobots and my coworker during this mission of diplomacy.” His family might have missed it, but Jazz caught Prowl reaching out to touch his arm before he backtracked.

This really would prove to be a challenge. Jazz had put such effort into making Prowl more and more comfortable with small acts of physical affection, and now he was becoming aware again of the subconscious moments.

He shoved the thought aside. “Pleasure to meet all of you,” Jazz said, trying to emulate the accent without offending. “Thank you for letting me stay with you.”

“You do not have a choice, necessarily,” one of the Praxians said, deadpaned, “what with your involvement with my creation.”

“Jazz,” Prowl introduced, “this is my sire.”

“You will call me Dreadnaught.” He raised a servo, and Jazz clasped it in the formal greeting Prowl had shown him.

“I am Ray,” another mech announced as he approached and clasped Jazz’s hand as well. “And this is our creation, Smokescreen.”

The younger blue mech raised a servo in a casual wave as he settled himself into a lax position on one of the couches.

“Who is acting quite rude,” Dreadnaught chastised.

“No, no worries! I’m not easily offended,” Jazz reassured, following an already overwhelmed looking Prowl to the sea of couches.

Prowl settled next to his brother, so Jazz opted for the spot on his partner’s other side. Once settled, he realized there was an awkward excess of empty space he could have filled, but Jazz didn’t care for the thought of relinquishing his place next to Prowl.

Fortunately, Dreadnaught and Ray seemed more preoccupied to notice the grouping. “Whether you are concerned with our norms is not in consideration. Smokescreen is aware of this,” Dreadnaught explained.

“Prowl said Jazz is easy-going and wouldn’t care,” Smokescreen defended.

At the mention of his name, Prowl bristled. “I insinuated nothing.”

“Insinuated, no. Outright spoke of it, yes.”

“You are here on behalf of your homeland’s governing body, I am told,” Ray interrupted, addressing Jazz.

“Yes, sir,” Jazz replied.

“Elaborate,” Dreadnaught commanded. Prowl spoke up before Jazz could even form the words.

“There is a growing concern that the recent riots will escalate further. Our department is ensuring that should conflict come to fruition, Cybertron will stand to act as a united front.”

“Yeah,” Jazz added. “The goal is to make sure we have allies everywhere. That way there’s free information sharing, supply lines, and multiple bright minds ready to defend peace.”

“Praxus,” Prowl interjected, “was the first on our priority list.”

“Because it will take the longest to convince.” Dreadnaught crossed his servos over his chest, and Jazz noted his wings beginning to strain in irritation.

“Praxus is highly respected, especially in Iacon and among the elite and governing,” Prowl straightened himself, puffing out his armor subtly. “Our aim is not to undermine Praxus solidarity. Rather, we have come to seek it’s assistance.”

“The High Council has then realized its transgressions?”

“The Autobots understand that there is much to be learned from Praxus, in no small part because of the suggestions I have made to our method of governing. It is also understood that, in the event of the unthinkable, those who side with no one stand the risk of being left in ruin.” Prowl spread out his wings in emphasis. “I have no intensions of leaving Praxus behind in the wake of the chaos that is building.”

Dreadnaught and Prowl engaged in a staring contest, both unshakable forces of pride and reason. They searched one another, but for what, Jazz could only guess. He glanced behind Prowl to search for any cues from his brother, but Smokescreen was lounging back into the couch cushions like he was watching a drama holovid. Prowl’s carrier had adopted only a slightly more appropriate position from his seat next to Dreadnaught. Neither were great examples to follow.

Charm it was then. “Prowl has made his opinions on the current crisis very known.” Four pairs of optics all shot their focus to him in terrifying unison. “We listened to him and reached a decision. The Autobots want to ensure the preservation of Praxus culture from the people who have threatened to destroy it.” Jazz leaned forward, trying for a disarming smile at Dreadnaught. “Our society didn’t work. Yours does. Our faction has connections and information. Yours doesn’t.”

Jazz let his words sink in before leaning back and commenting, “You have a lovely home!”

“Thank you!” Ray beamed. “It is the main family house.”

“Well, I’ve seen nothing like it in my life. The crystals outside were _massive_!”

“They began cultivating when the house was built,” Ray explained. “It takes four millivorn for one to reach the height of the few you saw.”

“Primus,” Jazz gasped, quickly doing the math. “Has it always stayed in the family?”

“Yes,” Dreadnaught interjected. “And it will remain so.” He locked eyes with Prowl. “Your brother has expressed an interest.”

“Smokescreen!” Ray spoke up, jarring the mech addressed to attention. “He is doing quite well, right darling?”

Smokescreen pulled a face and lulled his head in Prowl’s direction. “There is a wealth of joy to be found in my life, init?”

Jazz leaned back to chat between Prowl and the couch. “What is it you do?”

“I’m a therapist.” Smokescreen grinned humorlessly as he copied Jazz. “I specialize in depression and anxiety.”

“A dignified career choice,” Dreadnaught added. “Far more so than law enforcement in lowlands such as Tyger Pax.”

Jazz carefully raised himself to get an assessment on his partner. Prowl wore one of the blankest expressions he had ever seen on the Praxian. It was a good sign to Jazz that Prowl was beginning to lose it.

Another person entering the fray was a welcome distraction. A femme—Jazz couldn’t tell for the life of him whether she was the same from earlier—walked into the living room carrying two trays filled with various delicacies.

At the sight of the energon goodies, Jazz bounced to the edge of his seat. He waited until a tray was set on the table in front of their couch to say a quick “thank you” to her.

Prowl delivered a sharp jab to his side with an elbow. He caught himself before he let out a curse and met Prowl’s pointed look with a confused one. “I say something wrong?”

“No, not necessarily,” Ray reassured. “There’s no need to thank someone for doing their job.”

It wasn’t a rhetoric he hadn’t heard before, but Jazz was struck by it all the same. “I don’t mean to offend,” he offered, “but I like being respectful.”

Ray smiled at him sweetly. “It is appreciated. Just know there is no need with her.”

Jazz shoved a goodie in his mouth.

The five of them sat there in awkward silence interrupted only by the sounds of eating. It was not a melody Jazz cared for.

Smokescreen abruptly became his saving grace. “This is only a small part of the house, you know.”

“Oh,” Jazz said through a goodie. He finished intaking it before commenting, “It looked huge from the outside.”

Smokescreen made a noise of affirmation then elbowed his brother.

“Yes!” Prowl rose and motioned Jazz to do the same. “Perhaps a house tour?”

“Let’s!” Jazz didn’t hesitate to follow him out the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't my favorite, so I'll be posting the next one soon as an apology.
> 
> Stay safe everyone! Stay kind!


	4. Almost Such Sweet Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tour of Prowl's room leads to important conversations.
> 
> Chapter title from Hozier's "Almost (Sweet Music)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm putting a warning here that there is mention of police brutality (written as one of many displays of a society gone wrong) and use of body modifiers.

They didn’t get very far. Jutting from the living room was a system of hallways that led to various rooms. Down one corridor was a second living room (the informal one, apparently). Down another were the guest rooms, and another lead to a kitchen. Prowl explained the basic layout of the house all the while leading them straight to his section of the home.

“Section?” Jazz asked.

“Yes…” Prowl looked off in thought. “For every first creation born to the house, a new structure is added to their specifications.”

“So…you have a whole living space to yourself, but Smokescreen doesn’t?” Jazz tried not to sound as though he was judging Prowl. After all, the idea didn’t seem to be entirely his.

“He is the younger creation, so no,” Prowl conceded. “He does have his own room, it is just among the other youngling rooms.” He gestured offhandedly over his shoulder to some other part of the home. “The same area my room was before I was old enough to have my own space.”

“Why just you though? I get that you’re older, but you don’t even live here anymore.”

Prowl stopped and quickly glanced around the corridor for any unintended listeners. “Yes, it is because I am the elder creation.” He turned back to Jazz and grasped his hand. “And as such, I am technically the sole inheritor of the estate.”

“The whole thing?” he asked, picking back up into a walk at Prowl’s curt tug.

“Yes.” His wings stiffened uncomfortably and the hand holding Jazz’s gave his a little squeeze. “My life outside of Praxus is still, officially, a temporary arrangement. At least, it is in my house’s mind.”

They rounded a corner, approaching massive double doors with sleek, intricate detailing. Prowl squeezed his hand once more before releasing it to enter the room beyond.

“Do you have any expectations?”

Jazz laughed away his shock easily at the teasing tone. He had come to love Prowl’s little shows of attitude, like the smoothness to his words and the small upturn of his lips. The sense of the familiar was comforting.

“I have an idea of it.”

“I doubt it will compare. I did design this when I was a youngling.”

“I know it won’t have a single bit of wasted space.”

Prowl just hummed, like he knew Jazz was very wrong. Without another word though, he placed both his servos in hidden slots in the doors, twisting them before pushing it open.

It was nothing like the hard, practical Prowl most in Iacon had come to know. It didn’t resemble any cheap apartment he had ever rented or his pristine office at the precinct.

Cool toned walls rose to meet ceilings high enough to comfortably stand a shuttleformer. Crystal gardens littered the room in a pleasing composition, overgrown and casting the room in a soft blue hue. The entire left wall was just floor to ceiling windows. The space seemed to move as the floor, walls, and ceiling twinkled from the refractions in their designs. The glass itself were works of art, depicting figures and scenes enacting some story Jazz couldn’t name.

And this was just the common area. Straight across the room was another set of double doors, nearly hidden by the visual distractions of the rest of the chamber. Jazz hazarded a guess that was the actual berth room.

“Your thoughts?” Prowl asked with a hint of snark Jazz barely registered.

What was he to say? It was stunning! Dramatic even! The glass work aside, several other incredible pieces of art work were displayed across the walls and on tables. They depicted shapes and movement in a way Jazz had never encountered. Yet, there was cohesion among them in the calculated coolness of the designs.

The entire room seemed so planned and effortlessly intricate but at the same time was a grand exhibition of a love for creativity.

It showcased every aspect of Prowl that Jazz found undeniably beautiful.

“It’s very you,” Jazz replied, sounding even to himself overly sentimental.

His reaction must have taken Prowl by surprise because he walked over to see Jazz’s face as if he believed Jazz would lie. The Praxian looked between the wall of story telling windows and his stunned partner.

“It is?”

“You don’t see you in it?”

“No,” Prowl admitted and spun around slowly to reanalyze what was once his home. “I think it—it perhaps is a better representation of my youth.”

“I think it’s you at your core.”

Prowl avoided his gaze and flicked his wings down, folding them closer to himself in a display Jazz quickly defined as him feeling overwhelmed. He sifted through a variety of responses to ease Prowl’s mind but couldn’t find words.

There was something so very innocent about the image in front of him. Of Prowl standing among the imagery of his youth, bathed in the light of manipulated sun beams, his paint still reversed and still so unflattering. He seemed so small and solitary, a strange impression to have of someone usually so in control and opinionated.

“Hey,” Jazz called out softly, before he could really think about the words escaping his mouth. “I like it.”

Prowl finally met his gaze, face flushing when their optics locked. “Do you?” Jazz nodded. “Good.” He raised his wings back to their usual position. “I knew you would appreciate the accessories.”

Jazz extended his arms and spun around to scatter the light off his frame. “It’s gorgeous! All of it!”

Prowl hid his elation in his optics. “Well,” he hummed, “I will not need to bribe you with energon goodies then.”

“Now, hold up…” Jazz ceased his twirling to shift to complete seriousness.

But Prowl was stalking off to the center of the room where a sea of cushions laid recessed in the floor. “They would have been homemade…”

“Prowler, mech—”

“The machine, instead, remains abandoned.” He flicked a wrist to a door in the right wall.

Jazz ran to it and flung it open to reveal Prowl’s utter honesty.

“Younger-you straight up installed a goodies making machine in your room,” Jazz incredulously stated. He twisted to stare at his partner with a newfound appreciation.

Prowl just smiled and shrugged.

They decided a move to his berth room was necessary. Several trays of rust sticks and various other treats had already been consumed and more would undoubtedly be made with the machine in such close proximity.

His berth room did not inspire the same reaction out of Jazz as the common room did. It was a calmer version of the grander space with fewer windows, none of which consisted of religious fables, and smaller crystals.

Prowl had been mildly disappointed at the clear lack of care his gardens received during his absence. They were not at the correct height for their age, were unruly, and most had turned a darker blue in starvation. But he supposed it was preferred over someone frequenting his private space.

Jazz, though, he would make an exception for.

He directed their remaining trays of treats to be set on a side table but otherwise allowed Jazz to freely explore. His visor lit up in gleeful mischief as he set about wondering the room.

“So…you have a treat maker hidden in a wall out there, more works of art than I’ve ever seen in a museum…” he favored Prowl with a humorous rendition of a suspicious expression, “what are you hiding in here?”

Prowl grabbed a handful of rust sticks then walked past him to lay out on his berth. With a teasing grin, he said, “Find out.”

There really wasn’t anything of significant import left in the room, as far as Prowl could remember. The ploy was worth it, though, to see Jazz bounce into act. He moved in a mockery of spies, carefully lifting trinkets to look under them and tiptoeing around the spacious chamber.

And Prowl had the pleasure of sitting back and watching the exploration unfold.

Jazz approached his old vanity, wriggling his fingers at one drawer’s handle. “What youngling secrets are you hiding in here?” he teased. At Prowl’s soft chuckle, he started opening it to peer at the contends.

“Cosmetics,” Prowl explained. “Why would I have hidden my secrets in such an obvious place?”

Jazz paused his searching to wheeze, a sign he caught the statement’s implications. “You ain’t no fool,” he choked out, grinning like a rebellious youngling. Apparently finished with the first drawer, he moved to the one below it.

“Do you mean to tell me you hid confidential items in obvious drawers?” Prowl teased.

“I’ve never really needed to worry about people coming and snooping through my things,” Jazz admitted. “I have a safe I hide my valuables in but never had anything to hide from creators.”

Prowl bit down on another rust stick in thought. They hadn’t overly discussed family matters before, primarily due to his own reluctance on the subject. However, from the few mentions of them, Jazz’s situation seemed drastically different from his own.

“What would you hide from your creators?”

Jazz finished with the drawer and moved to the other side’s. “The usual,” he said, his words weighted by some context Prowl was unaware of. “But I never really _needed_ to hide from them. I’m told I was a pretty good mechling.”

“You were close with them, then?”

“Yeah.” Jazz cycled his vents. “They were good people. Would not have liked the sound of you,” he laughed, but the humor was missing.

Prowl decided there was no good response to that. The rust sticks suddenly were far more interesting than wherever the conversation was heading.

Jazz abruptly made a sound of shocked discovery. From the last drawer on the vanity, he pulled something out to confront Prowl. “What the frag are these?”

“Not in the least what you think.”

Jazz grinned mischievously, playfully cocking his head.

“You have quite the perverted mind.” Prowl cycled his vents but couldn’t hid his smile as he rose to demonstrate the apparatuses. “They are frame enhancers.”

All the joy of a potential scandal left him in a huff. “Guess it would have been a lot worse if they were something else.” Jazz handed him the devices, nodding his head up and down in a show of eying his frame. “What part of you needs enhancing?”

“Most of me.” Prowl set two of the three items on the vanity to properly hold the largest one. “These are designed to decrease frame mass.”

Despite the visor blocking his view of Jazz’s optics, Prowl could still see his confusion plainly in the glint of the screen. “Where?” he asked, sounding as though he was prepared to mull whoever had suggested the idea to him.

“This one is for my abdomen plating.” He took one end of the black device and stretched it in between a transformation seam on the side of his waist, then he did the same for the other end. It left his front covered in stretched, black bands. By lifting certain panels and threading the bands under them, the visual problem was solved. “Now, to activate it, you simply launch the program.”

Jazz’s face morphed from confusion to something nearing horrified as the device worked to thin his torso until his profile was a flat visual line from the tip of his chevron to his knees and his waist curved smoothly.

“It—” Jazz collected his words “—Primus, why? That _can’t_ be comfortable.”

“I would think the purpose is self-explanatory.” Prowl braced his servos on his hips, pushing slightly to relieve the tension in his waist. “It is to an extent, but it does aid with posture.”

“Yeah, no,” Jazz laughed nervously, “this is making a lot of sense about the way you sit. But can you—that doesn’t interfere with transforming?”

Prowl gestured to the draping garment he had removed and set on a chair. “That hardly matters when one must wear such offending accessories.”

Jazz held his helm like it was beginning to hurt him. “Where do the other two go?” he asked, sounding tired.

“My legs.” Prowl placed a hand on each of his thighs.

Jazz gave a disturbed hum and nodded.

“I take it you would prefer I not wear these.”

Jazz shook his head no. “Prowler, I just don’t get this.”

“Where is your confusion?”

“Why—just why?” He motioned to Prowl’s offended plating and thighs.

Prowl was beginning to wonder whether the sweets were causing his partner to lose his common sense. “To thin the areas,” he reexplained.

“But why thin them?”

“Because they are thick.”

“Thick? Prowler, you’re smaller than me!”

“Perhaps, but that is how your frame type is built. I, however, am large for my type, especially as an heir to a household.” Prowl tried to make his genuine confusion more noticeable. “Why is it that this bothers you so?”

“Because,” Jazz retorted, “because that’s the same principal as body sharing just on a small scale. And I just don’t agree with that.”

Prowl’s processor nearly faltered at the comparison.

Jazz must have understood his expression and elaborated. “You don’t like the body Primus gave you—whether that’s something forged by society or something you just feel—so you find ways to change it.”

He paid a swift glance to his frame. “But that does not include coloring?”

“Not in my mind, no.” Jazz gestured absently in a failed attempt at communicating abstract thoughts. “That’s different.”

“And this is not?”

“I don’t know, it just…bothers me, the thought of it.”

Prowl considered his partner’s point of view, analyzing just where his concern might originate. “Does it help in any way that I freely chose to wear them?”

“Why do you, though?”

“To thin—”

“No, why do you _want_ to wear it?”

Prowl opened his mouth to retort, but he could not form an adequate reason for a personal desire to use the thinners.

“Is this a Praxus thing or a you thing?” Jazz asked, turning serious.

That he couldn’t answer either. Prowl thought back to the moment he was handed the devices by his carrier. He had explained then as Prowl attempted now that their purpose was to reshape areas deemed unappealingly large. There had been no debating, though. Prowl believed, at least at the time, that they were as necessary as the repaints. He believed he willing chose to make the changes he did.

The entire existence of every cosmetic item in the vanity was suddenly called into question. Prowl hadn’t needed any of it after he left Praxus. There was a plethora of other insecurities associated with foreign culture, but his frame’s shape had never been one of them. Jazz was right; he was more slender than most non-flight frames. He had even been called beautiful (among other, more unfavorable terms) by people other than Jazz.

Prowl looked down at himself again, at the smaller waist that was once a comforting sight. It seemed so odd, now.

“I don’t know.” He looked over at Jazz. “I have no answers for you.”

Jazz nodded and seemed to school his expression. “That’s okay. Not an answer for everything.”

Prowl loathed that, right as Jazz was.

He began the process of deactivating and removing the device, staring at the other two. “I will need to wear them to all our outings,” he said. “At the very least, to the meetings with government officials.”

He could see Jazz nod in his peripheral, a gesture of complacency rather than agreeance.

Prowl set the frame correctors back in their place then returned to his berth, Jazz following, evidently done with his search. As he sat himself neatly by the tray of remaining treats, Jazz leaped forward to flop on his side, grinning at the face Prowl pulled.

“Are all berths in Praxus this squishy?” Jazz asked, wiggling on the spacious bed.

“I have no idea,” Prowl said after collecting himself and the displaced goodies. “I know they are vastly superior to any in Iacon and especially Tyger Pax.”

Jazz spread himself out flat on his back, the berth large enough that no part of him came close to the edge. “Frag yeah! This feels like a cloud!”

Prowl gave himself a moment to be grateful for Jazz’s ability to “roll with whatever”, as he had phrased it, and wish that he was far more skilled in the art. “I was never appreciative until I lost access.”

Jazz must have detected his unease because he gazed at Prowl in curiosity.

“I have never been allowed guests in my berth,” Prowl said, answering before Jazz could voice his question.

“But,” Jazz sang teasingly, “that rule never stopped you.”

“It did, actually.”

Jazz turned serious, sitting up on his elbows to look at him. “Really?”

They were entering sensitive territory, one that had sent many of Prowl’s foreign suitors away. He hesitated, recalling the scenarios he had played in his head over and over about how this conversation would go. None of them he had pictured taking place in his room in Praxus. Prowl supposed there would be no right time, though.

He moved to lay down on his front next to Jazz, avoiding his partner’s gaze.

“Have you—has it ever been a consideration—” Prowl reset his vocalizer and restarted. “I do not, I’m afraid, know a great deal about your religion apart from what you have explained to me.” Prowl fidgeted with the berth’s fabric. “But it is my understanding that your beliefs and mine share a commonality concerning courtship, yes?”

Jazz settled so their faces were level. Prowl performed a quick check: mouth askew in some unclassified expression, head tilted in thought, hands clasped but steady. Whatever Jazz was thinking, Prowl would have to wait for verbal input.

“I mean yeah,” Jazz said offhandedly. “If you’re talking about ‘facing, I mean.”

“I am, yes.” Prowl reverted to staring at the silky fabric between his digits. “In my culture…I was raised believing such acts of intimacy were to be reserved for after Conjunx Endura Acts were completed.” He released the sheets to hold his hands loosely together. “I maintain that belief.”

Without needing to look, Prowl could tell Jazz had stiffened. His field was riddled with discomfort, and Prowl had an idea of what would be said next.

It broke him, unexpectedly, to think the friendship evolving with Jazz would halt in its path to anything more. Prowl had held to the hope that they would have reached a deeper feeling before he added an arbitrary limitation to their romantic endeavors.

“Prowl,” Jazz said, slow and with meaning. He never expected to miss the use of his nickname to such a degree. “I need to tell you something.”

Emotions set aside, he looked up to meet Jazz’s gaze.

“I ain’t a virgin.”

Prowl stared back blankly at Jazz’s apologetic tone. “Given that you do not completely cover your face, I predicted as much.”

It was Jazz’s turn to look stunned. “You—you’re not mad?”

Prowl pushed himself up to an elbow, fully facing Jazz. “While it is something I have reserved for myself, I cannot expect others to do the same. Since experiencing…Cybertronian culture, I have come to accept that not everyone will share my views.”

“But you still willing to stay with me?”

The day was proving to be a challenge on his logic circuits. “I ought to be asking that.”

Jazz looked taken aback.

“You would truly be willing to wait for such a long time?” Prowl clarified.

“Not _that_ long.”

“How fast to you expect I move?”

“Prowler,” Jazz grinned, on the verge of relieved laughter. “When you love, you love _hard_ and without hesitation.”

“I…I have never been described that way,” Prowl admitted, mulling over the statement and its truthfulness.

Jazz flopped back into the sheets with a flourish and a grand sound of relief. “Good to know we on the same wavelength there!”

Prowl eased himself down, so he rested his helm in a servo. “Correct me…you mentioned you have not, in fact, waited until the Acts. Unless you have a secret conjunx I have yet to learn about.”

“No, no,” Jazz backtracked. “I believe in waiting till I’m all in. If that means the Acts with you, then we wait till then.” He fixed Prowl with an easy smile. “Either way, I ain’t about getting with you till I know you’re mine.”

“Oh,” Prowl considered the idea, appreciating the commonality. Jazz was scoring himself significant quality points. “Very well, then.” He laid down on his back next to his partner, clasping his hands over his chassis.

Jazz let the silence hang until the awkwardness set in before breaking it. “You want to know.”

“Yes,” Prowl muttered.

“Okay.” Jazz shifted so he could talk with his hands. “I’ve been with two people, all other dating aside.

“First was a femme I met back home in Polyhex, before I ever thought of moving. She was gorgeous—inside and out—with the brightest smile and the strongest personality I ever known. She was nothing to mess with, everyone knew it. My family loved her, my friends loved hanging with her, and _Primus_ , I fell hard. For a first love, I picked pretty good.” Jazz sounded wistful in his reminiscing, but he hushed as he continued.

“She didn’t let anyone best her. _Anyone_. I joked that it would get her in trouble one day, but I never thought I’d be right. I thought she could conquer anything you put in front of her…I think she believed that, too.” Jazz cycled his vents to clear away the wobble in his voice. “I got a call from a neighbor one day. He said there was a commotion outside our apartment—enforcement, sirens, the works—asked me if I was home. I was out at work and taken on an extra shift, so she had been leaving to spend the night at a friend’s. I tried calling her, but she wouldn’t pick up.” Jazz up at the ceiling, his field a mix of so many strong emotions that they conflicted and canceled into a numbness.

“Later, I got a call from law enforcement that a ‘suspicious character’ was loitering outside my place, that she resisted arrest and got aggressive. She threatened them apparently, enough for them to fear their lives and end hers…I didn’t believe a word of it. No one who knew her did.

“It took me vorns,” he continued, venting to clear away the lingering remorse, “but I found myself with a new lover. The mech was a lot of things, most appealing was that he was the furthest I could get from _her_. Larger, opinionated to the point of arrogance, loud, and full of the dangerous side of life. He liked to take me places. I had it in my mind he was going to take _us_ places. Somewhere far above the lower end of Polyhex.

“But hindsight was something I didn’t have at the time. He liked being in control of most everything. I liked letting him take the lead. He was the one to suggest the move to Iacon after I lost my creators. We didn’t have the finances—well, _he_ didn’t—so I took on jobs to get us out. He wanted to open up his own club there, get famous, and rise out of his function. He had all the ambition and drive, and I had the means.

“That kind of love was fast and fragile. I woke up to a new mood every cycle. It was fun, the spontaneous energy he brought, but it made me feel left behind. Like I needed to do more to stay with him. So, when he got it in his mind we were moving somewhere, I followed. Even if that somewhere was interfacing.”

Jazz shrugged, acknowledging that there was nothing he could do about any of it now. “Met Blaster ‘cause of him. Also learned a thing or two on how to track down a mech. Blaster brought up a few things about how he treated me, but I didn’t notice till long after the break-up. Finding out he was cheating helped that.” He laughed humorlessly. “Thinking back, I think he was done with me when I said I wouldn’t spark merge. After that, I was just there to fund his club. Which—I’m delighted to say—went bankrupt after I opened mine right across the street.” Jazz turned to him, showing off the most gleeful smirk Prowl had ever seen.

Prowl couldn’t help but chuckle, not in the least surprised that Jazz would be so underhanded. “I am glad to know you emerged from such a terrible relationship stronger and wiser. And I hope to never repeat the mistakes he made.”

“Trust me, Prowler,” Jazz said shaking his head, “you’re nothing like him.”

Prowl in-vented, gathering his thoughts before speaking. “I hope you know…even during my time in Tyger Pax, I never condoned aggression on the part of law enforcement.”

“Yeah, no, I got that.” Jazz extended a servo to him, and Prowl accepted it. “And you’re an investigator.”

“Investigative Enforcer.”

“Glorified detective,” Jazz laughed.

“But in all seriousness…”

“They’re the only two for me.”

“I have a high respect for that.”

“It’s okay that you don’t.” Jazz waved him off with a free servo.

“I am serious.” Prowl squeezed the hand he held. “You have only committed an act of devotion with a femme whom you had a life with and a mech who used you in your grief. Those are not mistakes—”

“He certainly feels like one.”

“Would you be here if you had never been there?”

Jazz stared at him for a long while in thought. “No, no I wouldn’t.”

“I am grateful, then.” Prowl took his turn staring at the ceiling. “My story next, then?”

“If you want to tell it, I want to listen.”

Prowl vented. “I have only one experience. As an heir to a House of Praxus, there are certain expectations placed on me, one being the mechs I court. I met and exceeded all expectations save the one.

“He was a servant here in the house. His family was very low class, and he himself was nothing extravagant. But I suffocated in my limitations and responsibilities. He was my escape.

“We shared sweet exchanges in the beginning. It was all fluttering wings and playing it coy. I had made the first move, under the light of Luna 2 in my quarter’s private garden. I kissed him with a kind of rebellion not expected of me, and I brought out of him something fiery. For vorns, we remained in our hidden love affair. We kept to our quiet confessions and late night strolls.”

Prowl glanced at their still clasped hands. “He came to me one day, alight with all the passion and confidence I gave him. He expressed his desire to love me properly, but that meant exposing the affair to our creators and eventually the public. Do understand that I wanted him, truly, but not enough to risk harm to him and his loved ones.

“So, I ended it. He was furious and hurt, but I saved him the pain of public exposure and scrutiny. My house would never have approved of him no matter how I felt. And he would have crumbled under their…opinions of him and his character.”

Jazz nodded. “You had no choice, so you took control before control was taken from you.”

“I was afraid,” Prowl corrected. “Afraid in the same sense as I was when I tried to run. The difference being that I have changed since then.” He looked Jazz in the visor. “I was weak then so that I could be stronger when you came into my life.”

Jazz smiled. “Primus knows a thing or two we don’t.”

“His logic rarely seems sound in the moment,” Prowl agreed, maintaining his strong gaze. “I have to say how grateful I am that we are similar in certain ways.”

“Like waiting?”

“Like having the patience and confidence to do so.” Prowl sat up to lay on his side, facing Jazz. “Where does it come from for you?”

Jazz hummed in appreciation of the question as though he had been waiting for someone to ask him. “Religion,” he answered, tapping his visor. “I was raised to see life—all life—as gifts from Primus. So every living thing is precious and deserves the kindness and attention you would want given to you.”

“It was not how I was raised, but it is what I have come to believe,” Prowl explained. “Though, you do possess a kind of optimism I could only hope to model.”

Jazz laughed, sending away any tension and remorse left in the room. “I’ll rub it off on you if you rub a little composure on me.”

“Deal,” Prowl said, giving his servo a small shake. “While we are in the business of making deals…”

“I’m with you.”

“Let us agree now that, should we progress far enough into this, we will wait to commit acts of devotion until we have both promised to spend our lives beside one another.”

“I’m in,” Jazz said, shifting on his side to face him. “Till we know we’re set to spend eternity—from life to until we return to the Allspark.” He wiggled a fraction closer. “That doesn’t include kissing or nothing, right?”

“No,” Prowl said adamantly. “I have no reservations of doing any form of physical affection between this,” he lifted their joined hands, “and more sensual actions.”

“Okay, great! Didn’t know how far it went for you.”

“Is this…do some in your religion go to such an extreme?”

“The more covered the face, the more likely they’re more devout,” Jazz explained. “I knew a couple, both with the full mask and visor, who didn’t _touch_ until after they were conjunx.”

“I have the highest respect for them, but that is a level of self-control I am not committed to.”

Jazz laughed again, as easy and smooth as his voice in a good mood. “Hey, Prowler?”

He hummed for Jazz to proceed.

“I know in public here it’s different,” Jazz elaborated, “but outside that, can I call you my lover?”

Prowl’s face flushed at the innocent expression Jazz wore and all that the term insinuated. Until that point, their arrangement was casual despite the exclusive nature. He hadn’t been referred to as anything extraordinary since his secret affair, and the thought of being someone significant to Jazz sent flutters up his spinal strut and through his doorwings.

“As long as you are careful with how you say it,” Prowl agreed, flushing even more as Jazz’s gleeful, giddy laughter filled his spark with a familiar kind of happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am honest when I say that I wrote the dialogue between Prowl and Jazz concerning their previous relationships months ago. That police brutality would finally be brought to light and fought against was not something I expected at the time, and I am grateful for the strides we are now making. I hope that, through the stories I am writing, that the issues plaguing our societies can be called out. I hope I can show how ignoring these problems will lead to tragedy.
> 
> Please stay safe! Stay kind! And love one another!!!


	5. Take Me to Church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick tour of Praxus leads to a good time. 
> 
> Title from Hozier's "Take Me to Church".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have Praxians speaking Welsh, so when you see sudden gibberish, just know the translation will be at the end of the chapter.

Jazz rose early that morning, surprisingly well rested despite how late he had stayed up.

The first thought to enter his mind was of Prowl. His _lover_ , he giddily reminded himself. The mech he had spent the entire evening talking and playing board games and eating goodies with. As he stretched on the plush berth, he thought of their previous night’s more significant conversation. He hadn’t spoken about past relationships to any potential partners in vorns, mostly to avoid leaning into the serious.

But with Prowl, it felt…not easy. Comfortable was perhaps the word. Where Jazz could obsess over morals and personal dilemmas, Prowl was steady in his ways. He knew, now, Prowl was willing to adapt or bend to abide by his own ethics but would only do so if he was sure of the good it could do. There was a wealth of security in that.

Jazz grinned, rolling over into a stand and walking to the guest room’s window. The sun was only just beginning its ascent into the sky, lighting up the city. Morning light flooded between the sleek architecture and refracted through glass accents. A blue hue blanketed the awakened city originating from somewhere to the left, though as much as Jazz pushed his face to the glass, he couldn’t find its source.

He stared out at the unfamiliar, working at his lip plates. The contrast of shadows to sunlight, the grid-like roads, the blinking of advertisements near the city center. It all called to him, beckoning for him to go exploring.

A quick check at the cycle’s schedule put Jazz in an even better mood. Closer to mid-cycle, he and Prowl attended their first conference meeting. Until then, however, Prowl had marked off the morning for “an excursion through my district”, beginning in less than a joor.

Jazz bounced on his peds in excited anticipation.

Prowl had been quiet, usually so. Sure, he wasn’t the most coherent in the early joors, but the way Jazz understood it, his lover had risen long before the sun had.

His carrier was in the kitchen when Jazz entered, speaking to Prowl in a disappointed tone and gesturing minutely to his lover’s frame. But Ray had immediately blanked and redirected his attentions to the resident guest, offering Jazz all manner of energon to start his cycle with.

He did his best to incite some positive reaction out of Prowl, but the Praxian remained monotone and held his field close to his person. It was infuriating not knowing what had placed Prowl in such a mood. Usually, Jazz prided himself on his people skills, but Ray and Prowl were practically unreadable.

They barely spoke a word as Prowl chose a guard to drive them into the city. Once they both silently settled in the transport, Jazz reached his limit.

“What’s getting you?” he accused, plainly and forgoing any tack. Jazz shifted to the edge of his seat across from Prowl, staring him down to find any indications of his lover cooperating.

Prowl glanced at him briefly, then turned to the thin wall separating the cargo space from the driver. “I need to stop here,” he commanded.

Jazz wanted to fuss, but he conceded at Prowl’s raised hand asking him for silence. A few klicks went by, and the transport heedlessly continued its journey.

“Most of our guards only speak Praxis, but I needed to check,” Prowl explained, lowering his servo and turning back to Jazz with a frown. “I apologize for being curt.”

Jazz softened, but his emotions were not fully sated. “I accept it, but you need to at least let me know that you plan on talking to me. Otherwise my mind will just go running.”

Prowl lowered his gaze to his fidgeting hands. “I—yes. I will keep that in mind.”

Something in his tone sounded apprehensive now that Prowl knew he was not being listened in on. Jazz reached over to grasp his knee. “What is it?” he asked, more empathic this time.

Prowl placed his servo atop Jazz’s and cycled his vents. “My carrier noticed my…indulgence. Especially with my forgoing the correctors for our outing. He had words to say regarding his opinions of it as well as pitching several accusations.” He gripped Jazz’s hand a little tighter. “Most of which held some measure of the truth.”

Jazz thought back to the many treats the two of them had made and consumed. He had helped Prowl clean up before he left, so he knew for a fact there was little evidence left in Prowl’s room of their evening activities.

He looked Prowl up and down. It was difficult to really see his frame, seated as he was and wearing his cape, but he deduced there must have been some tell there given Prowl’s choice of words.

Prowl seemed to catch his searching. “Do you not…bloat or—or show any signs of over consuming?” Prowl questioned him, looking perplexed.

“Not that I’m aware of, I think,” Jazz said. “Why, you do?”

“Enough for my carrier to notice the next cycle, yes. He was not particularly fond of me leaving the house as I am because of it.”

Jazz stared at his lover’s lithe, sleek frame. He had touched it before, felt the plating under his servos and traced its seams. It changed slightly, depending on the day, but Jazz loved the way it kept him curious.

The right words simply weren’t there. He felt telling Prowl he was stunning, true as it was, did little to actually improve his mood. But he didn’t see acknowledging any thickened areas as the right way to go, either.

Finally, Jazz settled on something he hoped would work. “Did you enjoy our little get together?”

Prowl seemed taken aback by the detour in conversation. “Yes, I always enjoy your company.”

He fought to control the way his spark spun at the admission. “Me too! So, for me, any evidence of such a good time is welcome.”

Prowl mulled over the perspective for a moment, glancing away in thought. “I—I suppose that is a more positive outlook. Though, I doubt my carrier would agree with you.”

Jazz decided Ray’s opinionated ways was not a topic for today. “You said he had a few ideas? Bout what you were up to?”

Prowl crinkled his face into something bordering disgust. “My carrier has the idea in his mind that I was engaging in something fairly erotic. Potentially with you, given your unfamiliarity, but equally with anyone else present in the estate last night.”

Jazz couldn’t catch the laugh that bubbled out of him. “ _Erotic_?”

“I cannot fathom what aspect of me would insinuate that I would enjoy consuming anything off of anyone. Or vice versa.”

“I don’t know,” Jazz said teasingly. “Sounds like it’d be _sweet_.”

Prowl’s face contorted as he battled the smile forming. “That was a terrible joke.”

“Nah, I’m funny,” Jazz giggled and pushed Prowl’s knee in a rhythmic oscillation.

Prowl hummed through a tight mouth, turning away to hide, but Jazz still saw the cute upturn in the corner of his mouth. He grinned, soaking in his success of bettering Prowl’s mood.

The historic center of his house’s district served as a hub for all shopping and entertainment needs. Its practical layout and ease of variety had always appealed to Prowl, but now he was grateful for the general taste of Praxus the area provided. Every district was essentially the same, differing only in certain local venues and surrounding landscapes. So, if Jazz was shown his district, he was then well versed in the twelve others.

As Prowl aided Jazz out of the transport, he took the opportunity to hold his partner’s hand for longer than was necessary. He was learning more and more that Jazz loved through touch and attention. If he intended to be a proper lover—the term still sent a thrill through him—then he would need to become properly fluent in the language of Jazz.

He also took into consideration the suggestion Jazz had dealt him. Prowl had not realized his subtle nods and quick looks had been too undetectable. In the future, he decided, they needed to come to an agreement on a signal.

Prowl was lost in his thoughts as they strolled past various shops. That was, until Jazz abruptly veered course into one.

“You sell tiny crystal gardens?” Jazz asked excitedly, standing in the foyer of the store filled with said crystals.

Prowl followed him in and gestured wordlessly to the vast array of gardens in response.

Jazz coughed to stifle a laugh, then waved for Prowl to follow him further into the store.

It hadn’t occurred to Prowl just how strange the merchandise might be to an outsider. He took very few possessions with him when he left, not including a single garden despite their significance to him. Jazz certainly had no reason to believe one could be purchased as easily as any other décor.

They wandered through the streams of blue hued light, Jazz gazing with all the wonder of a youngling at the intricate structures. He came to a stop at one, reaching out and glancing at Prowl to seek permission to touch.

“Do you fancy this one?” Prowl asked, nodding that he could hold it.

Jazz lifted the small grouping of jagged gems from the shelf and inspected it closely. “Yeah…I like the movement in it.”

“And the irregularities,” Prowl added. He spared a glance at their surroundings, noting no one was nearby save their guard in the next aisle. No doubt Ray had instructed him to keep an optic on his and Jazz’s interactions, so he resisted standing too close.

“How much is it? I got no clue what these loops mean,” Jazz asked, turning the garden to the side so they could view the price on the bottom of its container.

“Whatever the cost, it is of no concern to you.”

Jazz frowned in discomfort. “No, really, I got—”

“It is not my money I will be spending,” Prowl clarified. “Do allow me to pester my creators by being a gracious host in their absence.”

That turned his frown into a sly grin. “Sneaky fragger, Prowler.”

He shrugged. “I am only doing as I have been taught,” he said coyly, walking off towards the stand to pay. The melody of Jazz’s laugh sounded off behind him.

Prowl didn’t immediately recognize the mech behind the counter, but the mech seemed to become more alert at the sight of him, sitting up straighter as his optics brightened and wings fanned.

“Pleasant morning,” Prowl greeted in Praxis, waving to dismiss the clerk’s reaction. “I should like to—”

“You are not welcome.”

Prowl schooled his features, halting once he reached the counter. “I should like to make a purchase,” he repeated.

“You—” he pointed to Jazz, who was standing just off to the side “—you must leave. Our store policy restricts selling to immoralists.”

“He got a problem with me holding this or something?” Jazz asked sounding as though he had experienced such an issue before.

Prowl fixed the clerk with a scowl. “The foreigner is not making the purchase, I am,” he reasoned and tried not to seem impolite.

“You plan on gifting the crystals to him afterword, yes?” the clerk accused. “You expect that any respectable person would allow such spiritual items to fall into the hands of sinners?”

“This mech is carrying it for me, but the garden is for myself,” Prowl lied.

“I doubt that.” His wings lifted into a threatening ‘V’.

“Do I need to leave?” Jazz interrupted.

“No,” Prowl answered, “just a moment.” He turned back the other Praxian, reverting back to Praxis. “You would disregard my word so blatantly and without cause?” he accused.

“I have reason to believe you lie.”

“Alright,” Jazz chimed in. He walked up the counter himself and placed his chosen garden down on it. “I’ll be standing by outside with the guard, Prowler.” With that, Jazz stalked off to the doorway. Prowl watched him leave, signaling for the guard to follow, before turning back around to the clerk.

The mech seemed surprised. Or confused. Regardless, Prowl held no sympathy for him. He grabbed the small garden, retrieved his creators’ currency chip, and looked the mech dead in the eye. “I should like to make a purchase.”

Jazz didn’t appear the least bit shocked as Prowl emerged from the store, crystals in hand. In fact, he curled the corner of his mouth in a knowing smirk.

“Take it he was a bit better after I left,” Jazz guessed.

“We exchanged looks, he conceeded,” Prowl answered. “Care to get away from people?”

Jazz smiled wide enough to bare his denta. “I’m down for it, yeah!”

Prowl addressed their guard, switching to Praxis. “Take this to the transport while we continue down the street.”

“I am under orders to keep you in sight, sir,” the mech responded, doorwings twitching to say there was no room for argument.

There was no questioning just where the orders were sent from. Prowl considered his options, landing on a suitable response before his pause could be detected as hesitation. “I have been instructed to act as a local guide to our guest,” he explained, “and we are pressed for time. Far more consequences will befall you should you waste his limited time.”

The threat worked to lower the mech’s wings into a submissive pose. They twitched to show compliance before he reached out to accept the small crate of crystals.

Jazz tried to wave a goodbye, but Prowl grabbed the hand and took off down the street. If Prowl was correct, his driver would utilize their walking patterns from before to track them. So, they ran, gaining distance from their guard and invalidating any data he had collected.

They finally stopped after rounding several corners, ending in an alley between a housing complex and store. Vents blowing hard and the both of them leaned against opposite walls, Prowl glanced over at Jazz, staring into his visor.

The blue screen kept his eyes out of sight, but at this close and with Jazz’s optics so alight, Prowl could faintly see the burning orbs. They were filled with mirth and excitement that flooded his EM field. Prowl allowed his own to loosen, to mingle with his lover’s in joint elation.

After a klick of staring, Jazz broke into a fit of giggles that made Prowl’s spark flicker. They laughed, free and easy, with a kind of joy and sense of adventure that had Prowl reminiscing on his youth.

“Think it’ll—it’ll take him a while to find us?” Jazz asked between huffs.

“Hopefully,” Prowl answered, collecting himself into a stand.

“Poor thing,” Jazz muttered.

Prowl dismissed the concern with a wave. “He wouldn’t want my creators to know I tricked him into leaving. We’ll find him later and reassure him.”

“Later, huh?” Jazz shimmied over to the mouth of the alley to peer at the people walking by. “How much time is ‘later’?”

“Two joors. That offers us plenty of time.”

“For more shopping?” Jazz turned back around to face him. “’Cause I’m fine just walking around.”

Unsurprising, given his first and only experience. Fortunately, there were other options.

“If you would prefer to walk the streets, we can. But this is not my favorite place in Praxus.”

Jazz grinned, curiosity consuming his field. “Wherever that is, I want to go.”

They stood in the entrance, Prowl allowing Jazz time to overcome his entrancement.

“One of these in _every_ district?”

Prowl hummed confirmation, crossing his servos over his chest. “This is the largest and most impressive, justifying its position as my favorite.”

“Primus,” Jazz muttered, “here I prepared to be amazed by the famous Crystal _Garden_.”

“Yes, plurals seem to be a common translation error.”

“Primus…”

“Energon crystals are said to be conduits to him, actually.”

Jazz glanced over at him, still very much stunned. “Like the Matrix?”

“Well, no.” Prowl placed his servos on his hips. “More akin to…gospel music.”

Jazz nodded in sudden understanding. “So, we can go in?”

Prowl nodded, staring at his lover through his periphery with a smile. “You are going to love this,” he announced, stepping forward to lead them through and weaving passed the small number of other visitors.

Ancient crystal spires framed the outer rim of the natural labyrinth. The rocks had been allowed to grow freely in a protected region of the district center, a puny resemblance to the landscape prior to economic suffocation.

The mid-morning light served them well. It poured in from the sky, splitting apart into every direction though the innumerable crystals. Patches of pale gold and blue littered the paths, summoning them further into the labyrinth.

As Prowl moved through the cascades of light, he glowed like an ideal to be worshiped. His plating gleamed, the black soaking in the hues as the white played with the color. The shiny fabric of his garment swayed as he walked, tossing about patterns. Jazz found himself in a wonderful turmoil, deciding between the marvels of his lover and the natural world.

The only rectification was both calling on the same Creator. What wonders were the divine, Jazz considered, that such beauty could exist in a world often undeserving of it?

After breems of walking, they came into a dead end, void of other people. Prowl spun around in such a sensual way Jazz was sure it was purposeful.

Prowl gestured to the forest surrounding them. “This…it is my most beloved place in Praxus.”

There was no denying why. The spires bordering the clearing twirled and twisted together. Weaved formations veered on their course for the sky to shape an incomplete dome. Between the twisted crystals emerged beams of gold, visible lines painted into the scenery foreground. Unlike those being sold, these crystals held an array of colors within their seams, creating holographic apparitions within their massive internals if one looked intensely enough.

Jazz shuffled under the towers, turning and spinning to follow the twists. He hadn’t even realized he was dancing in tune with the structures until he caught sight of Prowl. His lover was steady in his stance, persistent in his glowing and smiling appreciatively at his display of happiness.

An anger built in his spark, stirring something accusatory in his darker mind. How could anyone see such magnificence and deem him unacceptable. Make him feel inadequate as he was. As he was created to be. Prowl was beautiful as he currently was, naturally, but Jazz longed to see him in this setting with his colors righted.

The minds of others were hard to change. There was only so much they could do.

But he could show Prowl love. Provide in him the same sublimity of standing amidst nature’s most astounding.

Jazz began moving again. He slid his peds lightly across the ground as he slowly spun like he was soaking in the solar rays to gain power. Prowl watched his every move, cataloging every turn to find the pattern. But his efforts were in vain; his lover was following the guidance of something other than choreography.

There was surprising grace in the chaos. Jazz danced with spark, commanding all who watched to surrender their attentions.

He was beautiful, Prowl realized. It was not as if Prowl had been blind up until now, but he had stayed shied away. With Jazz came never-ending change. The mech dancing for him would never cease to charge through life, to act on instinct, to persist on nothing but faith. Prowl thought back on his life before he left. His hungry for life had evolved to starvation by the time Jazz charmed his way into Prowl’s narrative.

Jazz grinned as he locked eyes with Prowl. With smooth motions, he closed the distance until he was close enough that Prowl could reach his outstretched servo.

Prowl spared a moment’s thought to anyone who could be watching, but he was clasping Jazz’s hand before he could remember to care.

A strong pull, and Prowl was drawn to Jazz’s front. Jazz made the first move, stepping backward, and Prowl followed suit. Their movements were unsure and unfamiliar, but as they danced, they fell into a rhythmic ease. They came apart, then pressed together in an uncoordinated fashion. Prowl lifted their joined hands so Jazz could spin under them, laughing as he twirled.

It all slowed as both stiffened in anticipation. A hand found itself around Prowl’s waist, another at the base of Jazz’s neck. Their foreheads met. Their grips on one another tightened, drawing them closer.

Prowl shuttered his optics as he leaned in and met Jazz halfway. Their lip plates collided softly in a chaste kiss.

It was an innocence so sweet and imperfect that they both broke apart to giggle. Jazz secured his hold on Prowl, titling to lean again at a better angle.

The second kiss was smoother for it, their mouths fitting together more cohesively. After several klicks of adjusting position and pressure, they each began working their mouths, negotiating the sensations.

It was clunky and messy and flawed in mutual uncertainty as all first kisses were. But, _Primus_ , was the adoration crystal clear.

When they broke apart once more, it was to the rhythm of heavy venting and soft chuckles.

“Beautiful,” Jazz muttered. He arched his helm to nuzzle at Prowl’s face, planting another chaste kiss to his lips.

Prowl responded eagerly, readjusting his hold on the back of Jazz’s helm to draw him nearer. He needed to convey some emotion that escaped his words. His lover seemed to understand. Jazz held him close, pulling his servos down his side and back to encourage Prowl to arch into him.

For all the pressure and motion, the moment felt so cool. Like the feeling of relief that came from removing a heavy blanket. Like the sensation of cold solvents on a taxed frame.

Prowl shuttered his optics open to catch glimpses of his lover’s handsome face, only to see figures over Jazz’s shoulder.

With a quick, decisive push, Prowl broke them apart. Jazz pouted and whined at the loss of contact, but he sobered once he registered the look of fear on Prowl’s face, turning around to see its source for himself.

Three mechs stood stunned still at the entrance of their dead end, staring at the couple and their public display.

Prowl tucked his servos behind his back, looking to Jazz as if he were posturing, and addressed the group first by saying, “Alla i eich helpu chi?” in a semi-snarky tone.

Jazz sorted through the few Praxis conversations he had heard, recognizing the words for ‘help’ and ‘you’.

The three each raised their wings angrily. One stepped forward and pointed an accusatory digit at them. “Beth ydych chi’n meddwl rydych chi’n ei wneud gyda’r mewnfudwr hwn?”

The word ‘you’ was in there mixed with all the offended anger. It gave Jazz the impression there was more these mechs were concerned about besides seeing a couple kissing. He suddenly longed for doorwings.

Prowl, for his part, kept a steady tone. “Yn dangos iddo ein gerddi, balchder Praxus.”

Well…that was primarily gibberish. Jazz sided-eyed Prowl, searching for a sign that his lover was indeed handling the newcomers with grace.

A different member of the trio spoke up, asking, “Pwy ydych chi’n aelod ohono?”

There was ‘you’, again, Jazz noted to himself humorlessly.

Prowl dismissed the question with a wave of his servo. “Nid yw hynny’n bryder gennych chi.”

The first mech spoke up again, sounding as if he were reciting a dialogue. “Mae diddordebau rhywun o'r tu allan mewn un o ddiddordeb mawr i'r teulu.”

“Mae clecs yn bechod, felly rwy'n eich cynghori i fynd â'ch llacharedd i rywle arall,” Prowl said quickly. He then snatched Jazz’s servo and started for the offended mechs, all of whom parted in Prowl’s wake.

Jazz kept pace with his anxious lover, trying and failing to discern what had just transpired. After they rounded another bend in the path, Jazz tugged Prowl to slow down.

“Prowler, hold up! What’d they say?” Jazz asked, frantic to be in the know.

Prowl ex-vented roughly, but conceded in stopping and confiding in him. “I—they were displeased by our closeness. I provided them an excuse they did not believe.” He shuffled from ped to ped, scanning the area before looking at Jazz. “I manipulated them. It is not kind, but it was necessary to have their silence.”

“But we probably should leave?” Jazz summarized, failing to hide the tiredness in his voice. This slag was nothing new, but it was unwelcomed all the same.

“That would be advisable, yes,” Prowl admitted. His wings dipped down, and he glanced up at Jazz with an apology. “I should not have allowed my guard to slip.”

Jazz squeezed the hand he held. “You don’t regret it, though, right?”

“No!” Prowl recoiled, wings lifting to flap in small oscillations. “No. I only wish to act contrite since it was my carelessness that cost us time with one another.”

“Cost us _that_ time,” Jazz corrected. He snuck a quick peak to Prowl’s cheek. “Got plenty more to waste later, Prowler.”

Prowl smiled in that small, sweet way when he felt giddy, trying and failing to control his features. “A true statement, yes.”

“Then how about we head back to the house,” Jazz suggested. “Get more time to…prep.”

“Yes,” Prowl agreed coyly. “For our meeting.”

They grinned at their like-minded concord, starting off once more for the mouth of the labyrinth.

Jazz couldn’t help his side glances, and Prowl found himself noticing the swift looks. Prowl did wish that his lover would dawn a different face, though, as every time he caught sight of that dopy grin, he would laugh like a lovestruck youngling.

Welsh translations:

“Can I help you?”

“What do you think you are doing with this immigrant?”

“Showing him our gardens, the pride of Praxus.”

“Of whose house are you a member?”

“That is not your concern.”

“An outsider’s interests in one is of great interest to the family.”

“To gossip is a sin, so I advise you to take your glares elsewhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please let me know what you think! I thrive on feedback (good or bad, just so long as it's kind). I'm not apposed to editing chapters or even the this fic's summary. Not sure what about this work is making me doubt it. 
> 
> Stay safe everyone! Stay kind!


	6. I Have No Language Left to Say It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl and Jazz complete their first meeting with Praxian officials and attend a party.
> 
> Chapter title from Hozier's "Foreigner's God".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a little longer to publish, so apologies for the delay. Thank you so much for everyone who showed support for this fic! It means a great deal to me and helped me to see the parts of this work I enjoy!

The house was quiet when they had returned. Its walls stood frozen and cold, as if its occupants were the only source of life in the place. The eerie silence was not unlike the strange paranoia of walking down the wrong street at night in an area you didn’t know. A shiver had trickled up Jazz’s spine as he made the connection.

When Jazz had asked where the house’s other occupants had gone, his lover responded with a curt, “Work.” Jazz had snickered at his lover’s snark, but Prowl gave no indications he wanted to elaborate. So, as they made their way down the silent halls to his guest room, Jazz allowed the conversation to remain unfinished.

He was feeling less uneasy now in the comfort of his lover’s company and in the humbler setting of the guest room. Before them laid their entire reason for visiting Praxus. The task of convincing these people to open their minds to the unfamiliar was looking like more of a challenge. They needed to reiterate just what they would say and when if they stood any chance of leaving Praxus with a treaty.

“We will begin with information.” Prowl reviewed, pointing to a stack of notes piled on the floor. “Then, logic.” He walked over to another stack to indicate it. “Then the appeal.” He made his way to the last stack and tapped it. “Logic will include our main selling points.”

“Info to lay the topic down, logic to open minds, then appeal to shove in the idea,” Jazz reworded.

“Exactly, yes.” Prowl rose to his full height, spanning his doorwings as if to encompass all the data pads and notes strewn across the floor under his careful control. “Where do you feel are our weakest points?”

Jazz peered at the tangible map of their argument from where he sat on the floor. The background information was fine, just meant to set the scene and acknowledge how much they knew before moving in to why they were really there. They had to also consider that this first conference was just with the ambassadors, so the goal was only to promote their request for an audience with the senators.

His helm began to ache thinking of the complicated mess that was government. Jazz stood to walk around their map to ease the strain in his processor.

“Remember,” Prowl said, backing out of the map to let Jazz roam freely, “this is a game, not politics.”

“Right, right.” Jazz bounced on his peds to shake himself out of the negativity. Politics still weren’t his forte, but he was willing to play the game Prowl laid out before him. He weaved in and out of the argument they had formulated, glancing at keywords and points.

He paused in front of the last stack, reading over the first page. “You feel set on acting the patriot, Prowler?”

“Enough,” he answered. He approached Jazz and crouched over the pile, sifting through it. “I predict we will rely most on reasoning to convince, but we can run through this again if you feel it’s necessary.”

Jazz shrugged. “I think I’m good to go, honestly.”

“Did this help?” Prowl asked, rising to a stand with his servos on his hips.

“Slag yeah it did!” Jazz gestured at the floor. “I can see what we’re doing better like this.”

“Wonderful. I was simply hoping the movement would prolong your focus.”

Jazz bristled, then reminded himself Prowl meant to help, not offend. Besides, incorporating kinetics actually did keep the mental fatigue away.

“We can leave this here if you would like,” Prowl offered.

Jazz waved the idea away. “Setting all this up was part of why it worked.” He turned to Prowl, giving his lover a quick onceover. His doorwings were held high but with a slight tremor. Every other part of him was rigid, from his drawn features to his fisted hands. Prowl was nervous, whether about their first meeting or the mechs who had seen them in the garden, Jazz couldn’t tell.

“How much time we got?”

Prowl looked off to check his chronometer, loosening a fraction as he performed some mental math. “We have about twenty breems before we need to leave if we are to arrive with time to spare.”

“Half a joor early, you mean,” Jazz teased with a grin.

Prowl pursed his lip plates, squinting at him to hide the mirth in his eyes. “On time, yes.” He waited for Jazz to stop chuckling before continuing. “We can either pick this up now, _or_ we could leisurely grab cubes and enjoy the empty house.”

Jazz made a mocking noise. “Prowler, babe! Not wanting to pick up after yourself!” He hummed appreciatively and swayed in a small dance. “I’m a terrible influence on you.”

“I disagree,” Prowl said, arching his helm in Jazz’s direction. It was difficult to detect, but Jazz picked up on the subtle upturns in the corners of his mouth and the twinge of playfulness in his voice. “I merely wish to use our time efficiently. This discussion is not aiding that.”

“Then it ought to end, don’t it?” Jazz bowed, gesturing to the door. “Lead the way, lovely.”

Prowl grabbed their things for the meeting, checking over the room before making his way to the door. “Lovely?” he asked with a small smirk.

“Ain’t that what you are?”

“Perhaps from your perspective.” Once the door was opened, Prowl slowly observed the hallway, searching for any bystanders. Finding none, he waved for Jazz to follow. “Or perhaps you need to clean your visor.”

“I probably do, but that doesn’t change how lovely you are.”

“I would think sight has something to do with how you perceive me, yes,” Prowl argued, his subtle sarcasm laced into the words. As they rounded a corner, Prowl slowed to glance ahead, finding the hall still clear.

“You were lovely before I ever saw you, so no. Sight don’t change that.”

Prowl scoffed. “That makes no sense. A preexisting condition or not, in order for you to come to a conclusion, you must either have been told of the condition or observed it yourself. So,” he gave Jazz a smug smirk, “who, then, told you I was lovely?”

“ _Am_ lovely. Come on, Prowler, learn verb tenses,” Jazz teased. He quickly searched for something clever to respond with. “The, um…the crystals told me.”

“The crystals?” Prowl asked, sounding just as unimpressed as Jazz felt about the answer.

“The ones we bought, yeah!” Jazz said, struggling not to laugh. “It’s why I got them. They were calling to me, telling me things.” He lifted his servos to gesture as he spoke. “Things like ‘Prowl’s really pretty’ and ‘What a lovely person Prowl is!’ and ‘Frag, mech, kiss that snack!’”

Prowl snorted loudly at the jarring shift in tone and quickly pressed a hand to his mouth.

“So, I bought it,” Jazz continued, watching out of the corner of his eyes as Prowl’s shoulders began to shake. “And I kissed a sweety.” Prowl made the mistake of glancing at him and his cheeky grin, breaking him into a fit of quiet laughter. “It was a great idea! No clue why I didn’t do it sooner!”

Prowl removed his hand to speak, but all that came out was the beginnings of more laughter. Once he finally collected himself, he shook his helm. “You are a ridiculous person.”

“But you like it?” Jazz asked, partly just to tease, partly curious of the answer.

“It is a trait of yours I am growing to enjoy aspects of, yes.” Prowl glanced at him, one of his small smiles beginning to form. “And the wait was well worth it.”

“Wasn’t it?” Jazz folded his servos behind his helm, blissful in remembrance of their morning outing. “I think that was my favorite first kiss.”

Prowl gave him a considering look. “Due to location, the thrill of secrecy, or the person?”

“Hit me harder, why don’t you,” Jazz laughed, then reset his vocalizer to let Prowl know his answer was genuine. “Think a bit of all of it. But,” he removed a hand to point it at Prowl, “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else there with me.”

Prowl mulled over that up until they entered the kitchen. As he set about preparing them energon cubes, he finally asked, “Even out of a choice of anyone, alive or otherwise?”

It didn’t take Jazz long to form an answer. “Prowler, the place means something to you, not anyone else. It wouldn’t have been the same with someone who doesn’t feel the world the way you do.”

Prowl stared at him for a moment with an expression Jazz couldn’t name before he hesitantly returned to his task. Jazz jumped onto the counter, watching Prowl from behind. His lover could be a difficult one to read, and Jazz worried for a moment that Prowl’s return to task was a sign he didn’t like the answer he received.

“I just mean that you…it was something spiritual to you.”

“No, I agree,” Prowl said, turning to look at Jazz over his shoulder and unknowingly relaxing him. “It is simply that I cannot find the words to adequately describe the experience.” He grabbed both cubes and walked over to the counter Jazz occupied, setting them down next to Jazz’s thigh.

“It was like…,” Jazz rolled his servo as he searched for a comparison, “The gardens were like gospel music, like you said.”

Prowl tilted his helm curiously. “And what if I were to kiss you here?” he asked, picking up his own cube and staring at its contents.

Jazz steadied himself with a shallow in-vent. “Here would be like…slow instrumental.”

Prowl hummed in thought. He took a slow draw at his energon as Jazz did the same. Their movements mirrored, both stared over the brim of their cubes at the other. Jazz had half a mind to let the tension build, to allow the symphony to rise for a grander fall. A large part of him also wanted to just grab his lover’s face again. But that kind of spontaneous energy he wasn’t sure Prowl would enjoy, so he focused on the taste of his energon.

The cube was suddenly taken from him. Before Jazz could get a word in of question, Prowl was cupping his face and bringing him in to a kiss. It was slow and inquisitive, still littered with the novelty of their frames being so close. Jazz wiggled to press his front to Prowl’s and wrapped his legs around the slim waist, the plating there tight from the modifiers. He forced the negative thoughts surrounding the devices away, not wanting to deal with the debate at the moment. He tilted, angling their faces and arching so their mouths could fit more seamlessly, and he could work the mesh there.

It ended as Prowl pulled away with vents huffing to quickly cool their frames.

“Yes, like slow instrumental.”

Jazz stared for a moment, then burst into laughter. “I wouldn’t call that _slow_.”

“No?” Prowl asked, leaning in again. “How would you define ‘slow’, then?”

Their mouths were so close to touching that a shiver ran down Jazz’s spinal strut. The exhilaration he felt couldn’t just be from being asked to define a term. Perhaps the thrill had something to do with circumstance. He was sitting atop the kitchen counter of Prowl’s wealthy creators’ mansion in the midst of a forbidden romance. It was like a cliché holo-vid or novel not based in any normal kind of reality.

Or perhaps it was just Prowl. Just the way someone so controlled and cautious could make him feel the best kind of mischievous. That clever little grin he wore, that thoughtful look in his eyes, the regal way he held himself. Jazz couldn’t have stopped himself from leaning in even if he wanted to.

The moment was quiet and serene, as if all the tension and anticipation were calmly distributed elsewhere. Prowl had asked for slow, so Jazz did all he could to take his time. It was a chance for tranquil discovery, for gaining better insight into the wonderful world of physical intimacy.

Jazz barely registered Prowl sliding their cubes down the counter, out of the way. As he wrapped his arms around his lover’s shoulders and arched into Prowl’s hold on him, Jazz idly wondered what kind of miracle it would take for them to make it anywhere on time anymore.

Their job wasn’t complete, but Prowl would take the progress for the victory it was. Two immigrants and three Praxian ambassadors had walked into a conference room and left with a scheduled hearing before the Senate.

They were joors of his life Prowl would never get back. Over and over, the debate ran in circular reasonings, constantly cycling back to the same closeminded mentality that could spell doom for the city-state. It took numerous, insistent statements of his loyalty to his home and the respect the Autobots held for Praxus for the ambassadors to finally admit that their cause warranted further debate.

Exhausting as the entire experience was, there was insight to be gained.

Knowing Praxian foreign relations history was only so useful. It paid to be knowledgeable, but their audience did not appear receptive to being retaught their own past (according to Jazz). That section required editing. He and Jazz would need to know certain facts and relations readily, but their opening statements and topic would need to be significantly trimmed down.

Patriotism aided more than Prowl would have ever imagined. Most any statement he made was better received if it was preceded by some acknowledgement of Praxian superiority. Even very clear facts would be wholly ignored if there was no mention of their pertinence to his people and their economy.

And—the most irksome of Prowl’s mental notes—the negotiations fared better if Jazz did not speak. He could say the same line of fact or logic as Jazz, but his words would not be faced with the same dejection as his partner’s. Editing their speaking sections to minimize Jazz’s time was not an option in Prowl’s mind, but Jazz was insistent.

“It don’t matter who says what, to us, so just let me hang back,” Jazz argued. “It just matters that we get the treaty. My pride can wait.”

How was he to refute that? Prowl could no more refuse Jazz’s selfless desires than he could live a life without transforming.

“We will negotiate the changes,” Prowl conceded, “but it will be done with underlying frustration.”

Jazz laughed at that, the sweet melody filling the dark interior of the transport as they drove home from the embassy. It lingered in the air between them the rest of the drive. The peaceful silence allowed Prowl to think about the debate and what other anxieties sprung from it.

The possibility of their negotiations actually working had been mere speculation until the meeting before the Senate was officially scheduled. Their presence was now legitimized. Their cause was now an open conversation among the ruling powers of Praxus. If their next discussion succeeded as well as the one with the ambassadors, then the Autobots would have _Praxus_ as its first ally.

And his own role with foreign conflict would become well known. His house and family would become tied to his dealings with the radical idealisms and national welfares of city-states other than his home. Sure, he could wave the excuse that all he did was for the good of Praxus, but Prowl doubted most of his relatives would truly believe it. The public may not be privy to it, but his family knew the details surrounding his exile. They would see through him.

Prowl didn’t realize how stiff he had become until Jazz reached over and grasped his shoulder. The warmth of the gesture melted the stress and softened his posture, only furthered by the deep baritone of his lover’s voice.

“It’ll all work out,” Jazz assured, squeezing the plating he held.

A slow cycle of his vents worked to ease the rest of Prowl’s racing mind. It was then he noticed the transport was stopped.

“Are we back?”

“Think so, yeah.” Hesitantly, Jazz removed his hand and sat back in his seat. “Figured you wanted to be brought back by me and not the driver.”

Prowl inclined his wings in thanks, then stood to look out the narrow windows. At the main door, waiting to greet them, were his creators.

Something in his expression must have signaled to Jazz that their situation was less than ideal because his lover stood to look out with him.

“What? There enforcers outside or something?”

“Worse,” Prowl muttered. He stepped aside to allow Jazz to see. “They are either ecstatically awaiting my return, or I am under severe scrutiny.”

Jazz twisted to throw him a confused (and slightly concerned) look over his shoulder. “Why you say that?”

Prowl directed with his hand to the scene outside the small window. “Why else would they greet us at the entrance rather than the parlor?”

Whatever Jazz was about to say in response was interrupted by the transport doors opening. Their driver stepped to the side without preamble, and the pair were left to awkwardly stare between one another and what Prowl was sure was their doom.

Any progress they had just made was now worthless, that much Prowl was certain. Still, he exited the vehicle, displaying as best he could complete confidence. He held his helm high as he panicked over how to explain the kiss in the gardens. He raised his wings proudly as every mistake he made over the last few vorns came to mind. He clutched his servos behind his back, hidden beneath his cape, as the remorse set in.

As they approached his creators, Prowl sent a quick prayer to Primus, thanking Him for all his past good fortune. And for Jazz, the mech strolling to the grave right beside him. A multitude of punishments awaited him, but for Jazz, the consequence of their closeness was immediate deportation.

This might be the last they see of one another, Prowl realized. Fear set in along with a grief he wasn’t anticipating.

None of his thoughts came close to conclusions before they reached the main entrance of the estate. Prowl quickly collected himself, dipping into an overly polite bow in greeting. Beside him, Jazz did the same.

“I heard of your deeds this cycle, Prowl,” Dreadnaught said.

Dismay sank into Prowl’s very spark, and he felt Jazz freeze next to him. He rose and asked in a calm tone, “You have?”

“Concord called me and expressed such admiration for your devotion to our home.”

Prowl nearly crashed. His anxiety didn’t falter, but it did quiet at the apparent lack of a threat. “He approved of us, then?”

“He sang his praises for you,” Ray exclaimed, breaking away from his place next to his conjunx to grab Prowl’s face. “Have you the slightest idea how proud I am of you?”

Prowl just stared at him, amazed at what he was hearing, and fluttered his wings in appreciation.

“What’s happened?” Jazz asked, jarring Prowl from his moment with his carrier. It hadn’t occurred to him his creators had addressed them in Praxis.

“One of the ambassadors contacted my sire to say the meeting went well.”

“Oh!” Jazz’s mild terror easily shifted into a wide grin. “I wish he told us that while we were there! I could have thanked him in person.”

“Your return was always intended to be marked by a grand gathering,” Dreadnaught continued in Praxis, avoiding looking at Jazz. “Now, we simply have more reason to celebrate.”

Prowl caught the obvious lie but left it be. There was no point wasting time outright arguing with his sire. He removed his hands from behind his back to hold his carrier’s. “Indeed, there is. I should hope your prescheduled arrangements will not interfere with our new agenda for tomorrow.”

The bottom lining of one of Dreadnaught’s optics twitched, the only indication he noticed Prowl’s dig at him. “Fortunately, the gathering is this evening.”

“Convenient.”

“It’s nothing major,” Ray explained. “Family members only. We just want to celebrate your return to Praxus with a nice party.”

“Party!” Jazz exclaimed. Prowl’s creators stared at him as if just then realizing he still existed. Jazz’s smile diminished slightly. “’Parti’ sounds like ‘party’, so I just…assumed the translation.”

Prowl snuck a grin to his lover, turning up the corner of his mouth just Jazz could see.

“Not quite,” Dreadnaught explained in a measured tone, finally switching to standard Iacon. “We are hosting more of a ‘dathliad’.”

“It is relatively the same,” Ray said, also switching languages. He smiled politely at Jazz and explained, “There will be a small party tonight to honor Prowl.”

“That sounds great! How does it work here?”

At his creators’ confusion, Prowl interjected. “There will most likely be music and confections.”

“All I need to have a good time,” Jazz said, his smile turning sly.

“I am sure it’s not the kind of music you listen to,” Ray explained.

He didn’t sound particularly rude, but Prowl still bristled at the words. “Jazz appreciates art, carrier. He will enjoy whatever is played.”

“You assume he will be attending?” Dreadnaught asked. The fact that he changed back to Praxis only signaled to Prowl that his sire knew how inappropriate the comment was.

“Bold that you would insinuate not inviting our guest,” Prowl retorted, his native language rolling off his glossa fluidly.

“I have treats inside if you would like some, Jazz?”

Ray’s cheery offer and Jazz’s enthusiastic reply did nothing to remove the tension between sire and son. Prowl still fixed his creator with a steady glare as he followed Ray and Jazz into the house. All the fear from moments before quickly returned as soon as Dreadnaught was out of sight.

The “dathliad’” was more like a large, informal social gathering than a party as far as Jazz was concerned. But it was still a good reason to take a break from preparing for the next cycle’s meeting.

Prowl hadn’t been lying about the abundant sweets and fuel, all expensive looking and complexly flavored. Jazz mentally made it a goal to taste them all. As he wondered the room with his small tray of confections, he drowned himself in the soft, rhythmic music flooding the ballroom. There wasn’t a band or DJ in sight, the melodies just played from hidden speakers somewhere in the rafters. That only added to the hypnotic atmosphere of the instrumentals.

Beside him, Prowl moved through the crowd calmly, collected in the way he shielded his hands behind his back beneath his cape. He led them through a weaving pattern, stopping every so often to greet a relative.

Jazz bit down on an energon goodie and let his sight roam. Countless Praxians congregated in little pockets of conversation, their noise barely interfering with the soft music from above. It was strange, Jazz thought, to associate parties with conversing with anyone. But here the tunes were, merely a backdrop to discussions and catching up.

As he stared at the room and all its occupants, Jazz came to the realization that he had no way to differentiate the majority of Prowl’s family. He knew Dreadnaught was a striking black and red and Ray was a pleasant tricolor of blue white and yellow, but there were only so many colors and combinations. Everyone was either two or three toned, with the lightest and darkest colors in the same regions as Prowl’s repaint. Half the room’s proud chevrons were the same muted red as Prowl’s while the others were soft yellow. But if there were any other physical differences, Jazz couldn’t see them. And it did him no favors that everyone wore one of two colored capes.

They paused again as another of Prowl’s relatives motioned for him. Jazz stood just to the side, not really paying attention and feeling no regret for it. He continued his wondering gaze, waiting for Prowl to have them moving again.

“Are you enjoying it?”

Jazz froze, a treat awkwardly in his mouth. No one had made conversation with him yet, directly or through Prowl. He just assumed either no one was bilingual or had anything to say to him.

Opting to very quickly finish the bite of the treat, Jazz made time by gesturing to the rest of the room. He panicked over just what to say, realizing he had no idea what the mech was referring to. With a hopefully unnoticeable gulp, he replied, “It’s a beautiful place.”

“Yes, it is,” the mech agreed, smiling wide and motioning to the sliver walls and glass ceiling, the stars twinkling above them. “Not your normal, no?”

“No, not at all,” Jazz said, purposely speaking slower so the other could understand.

The flash of Prowl’s garment drew his attention. “Blade is on my carrier’s side,” Prowl explained. “He is my…my carrier’s brother’s fourth creation’s creation, I believe.”

Jazz nodded, smiling back at the relative. He couldn’t see a resemblance in color scheme to Ray, as the mech sported such muted tones of green and grey, aside from the yellow chevron.

“You seem very polite,” Blade said, talking with his hands that in no way appeared to communicate anything. Jazz stiffened uncomfortably, muttering a soft “thank you”. “Do you like the music?”

Now that was an excellent topic. “I do very much! I love music!”

“It is not too slow? I know Polyhexians love the loud and fast kind.”

His grin threatened to falter, but Jazz refused to let the comment bother him. “No, like I said, I love music. All types. I’ve been enjoying listening to yours because it’s got such a nice rhythm to it. You think its repetitive and predictable, but then the melody shifts.” He waved his hands in emphasis. “It has excellent subtleties. The notes dip and change in little ways that build into something grander.”

The mech’s smile slowly became empty as Jazz spoke. Once he finally stopped, Blade glanced to Prowl, the flick of his doorwings pronounced under his garment.

If Prowl had any thought of his own, he did well to hide it. “Roedd Jazz yn gerddor cyn iddo newid i wleidyddiaeth.”

Blade made a soft sound as though he finally understood. Jazz doubted everything he had said was translated verbatim, though.

“Efallai y dylai fod wedi aros gyda cherddoriaeth. Mae’n addas iddyn nhw.”

It was the way he said it that gave Jazz a bad impression, like he was mocking him, subtle as the tone was. So, he didn’t stop himself from being politely sarcastic.

“Thank you for the feedback.”

He wasn’t sure how broad the other mech’s vocabulary was, but either way, Blade clearly was surprised by Jazz responding to him. So much so that he gave a curt nod to the pair then walked away.

Once the cousin left, Prowl turned to face him, using Jazz as a shield from the crowd as he schooled his expression. The strain on his lover’s face told him everything he needed to know.

“It fit, I take it?”

Prowl made a choking noise, strategically placing a hand over his grinning mouth so he looked thoughtful.

“You don’t know what he said?” Prowl asked, sounding amazed. As if he had actually thought Jazz could have learned a whole language in the two cycles he had been here.

“Not a clue. Just sounded snarky.” Jazz struggled to suppress his own grin as Prowl’s field mingled with his to share his mirth and pride, along with mild irritation.

“It fit just well enough, yes, though it verged on being rude,” Prowl admitted. He steeled himself, then stood up a little straighter. “Shall we continue?”

“Lead me,” Jazz said, nodding to the crowd.

They moved along again, heading toward one of the tables along a wall so Jazz could grab a few more treats to try. A few people stood nearby and inclined their helms as Prowl approached, exchanging pleasantries.

After a while, the small group around Prowl parted to allow someone through. He wasn’t someone Jazz had been introduced to, for sure. The Praxian bore a high contrast white and crimson finish and wore a cape riddled with sliver and azure embellishments. He didn’t hesitate to make his presence known, sweeping in to greet Prowl then turning his attention to Jazz.

“And you are our guest of honor, evidently.”

Jazz accepted the offered hand blankly, shocked at how clearly the mech spoke.

“Faze was an ambassador to Iacon for a time,” Prowl explained. “Thus, he learned the language.”

“Fortunate, now, that I am able to use it,” Faze said, raising his wings and making his garment into a curtain for the people behind him. “How are you finding Praxus?”

“Beautiful,” Jazz answered, “Your nation is stunning!”

“Would you believe how many disagree?” Faze asked, an air of authority to his voice. “When I heard our Prowl was bringing with him a mech from Iacon, I was quite concerned how we would be perceived. My worries faded once I was informed you originate from Polyhex.”

Jazz in vented, slow enough so it was not noticed. “Have you been to Iacon?”

“Twice, yes.” Faze visibly looked him up and down, his gaze stopping at his visor. “However, this is the first time I have met someone like yourself.”

Jazz braced himself for the inevitable, plastering on a friendly expression. “Glad I can be your first.”

“I have often wondered actually. Tell me, do the colors of the visors have a meaning?”

He released the vent he held, already tired of the topic. “No, it’s just my optic color.”

“Really?” Faze asked, lifting a hand to his chin. “So, the screen itself is clear?” At Jazz’s nod, he seemed even more curious and held out an expectant hand. “Could we see it?”

Prowl made to defend him, but Jazz quickly beat him to it. “No, I don’t take it off,” he answered with enough finality that he was sure the conversation would end.

“Even while you recharge? That seems excessive, especially for something unnecessary.”

“It’s not—” Jazz calmed himself before continuing. “I’ve been told my visor is the equivalent of doorwings, if that makes more sense. They’re not something just anyone can have access to.”

“Our wings are parts of our bodies,” Faze argued, with the nerve to sound offended. “We are created to carry them. You, however, have chosen face coverings. The two are in no way comparable.”

“Faze,” Prowl interjected coolly, “Perhaps it is more like our garments? Coverings that are meant to conceal that which we do not want strangers to see.”

Faze stiffened at Prowl’s suggestion. “Mae’n ymddangos eu bod yn credo bod cysylltiad crefyddol a’u llygaid. Sut mae hynny’r un peth?”

“A fyddech chi’n teimlo’n gyffyrddus pe bai dieithryn yn trine ich dillad?” Prowl lifted a front panel of his cape, drawing Jazz’s attention to it and giving him a thought.

“I think,” Jazz said, “that it’s for basically the same reason that we both cover ourselves.” He motioned at Prowl and the sections of his frame hidden from view. “You protect your wings and core from strangers’ eyes. I do the same, just with my optics.” He tapped the side of his visor for emphasis.

Faze narrowed his eyes at Jazz. “There is no comparison to be made between your ways and ours. It is a difference of culture and of religion.”

“If you came over to talk religion, then let’s talk,” Jazz offered, trying for a casual tone. “But I can tell you now, neither of us are going to convert.”

“I imagine, given how your type still believe in the conspiracy that the Primes are prophets.”

“Matrix Bearers are prophets,” Jazz corrected, clinging to his friendly smile. “Sentinel is a false preacher. _That_ , I think, we agree on.”

A few surrounding mechs nodded and turned to their neighbors to translate. Jazz glanced at Prowl and noted how tense his lover was becoming. His wings were rigid, and his face was drawn tight. It was the first sign to Jazz that perhaps the conversation needed to end.

Faze didn’t seem to get the same memo. “If Primes are so divine, then explain Unicron’s descension.”

“Well, he was never a Matrix Bearer in our lore, for one,” Jazz answered. “And even if he was, Bearers are people same as you and me. They aren’t any better than us, they just have better access to Primus and knowledge.” He paused, thinking up a way to come to some neutral ground, even if it left him on the losing side of the argument. But Faze gave him no time.

“Perhaps that is where your line of thinking faulters. Your ‘Primus’ is not the Creator.”

Jazz leaned his weight on one side to slouch, subtly placing himself closer to his anxious partner. “It’s all the same god, no matter what you name him. But how about we agree to disagree?”

“It is offensive to suggest our Creator is in any connection to your idol.”

“I find it disrespectful of you to so blatantly disregard Jazz’s willingness to compromise,” Prowl jeered.

Faze directed a sharp, accusatory look at him. “Byddech chi’n amddiffyn y tramorwr hwn dros aelod o’r teulu?”

“Byddaf yn amddiffyn yr anrhydeddus a’r rhai sy’n gallu ildio’u balchder.”

Jazz stood back and watched as the two stared one another down, both unrelenting forces. When several tense klicks went by with no victor in sight, he interjected once more.

“Let’s think of this as more like a language difference,” Jazz suggested, failing to gain the attention of either Praxian. “We’re all trying to accomplish the same goals: communicate needs, perform acts of kindness, and so on. It’s just that you and I are more comfortable doing those in our own speech.”

The stalemate persisted, even after Prowl raised an optic brow at his relative. Faze finally turned meticulously to shift his staring to Jazz.

Jazz grinned politely. “Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

Had he not become more used to finding Prowl’s micro-expressions, Jazz might have missed the way the corners of Faze’s mouth curved down or the way his optics sharpened to focus on him. There was no glory in being called out, and that was obviously abundantly clear to Faze.

“My sire wishes to speak with us,” Prowl suddenly spoke up. “Diolch i chi i gyd am ddod i’r cyfarfod er anrhydedd i mi. Roedd yn bleser ymweld a phob un ohonoch.”

It was a ruse, Jazz was sure, but he didn’t wait to follow Prowl out of the circle that had formed around them, leaving Faze behind without another word. Back in the open space of the ballroom, the lack of conversation allowing the music to once more fill the air, Jazz finally felt relief. He let Prowl led them to his creators and negotiate an excuse to leave early, under the guise of preparing for their upcoming meeting. As they made their way out the room, a weight he hadn’t realized he had been holding began to lift.

Until Prowl rounded on him.

“What was going through your mind that you would decide to engage in a religious debate?”

It was rare Prowl ever sounded truly angry. And while he seemed more perturbed than furious, Jazz was wise enough to know a wrong word or two could change that.

“I tried ending it sooner—”

“Ending it sooner would have meant pretending to agree with Faze and moving on.”

“He did attack my—”

“I don’t excuse his actions,” Prowl clarified. “But I am well aware you know better than him.”

A chastisement wrapped nicely in a complement. Jazz recognized the statement as an attempt at a technique he had shown Prowl once. This wasn’t exactly what he had meant, but he couldn’t help but soften at Prowl having listened to him. His lover was right, he did know better. It didn’t wash away the actions of others, though.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not completely meaning it, yet, but knowing it was what Prowl was looking to hear.

Prowl cycled his vents and his wings drooped slightly. “No, you’re not.”

“I _am_ sorry I put my pride before your situation.” That, at least, was entirely honest, and Jazz tried to sound as genuine as he felt.

It either worked or Prowl was too mentally exhausted to carry on the discussion. He just waved the apology away and motioned for Jazz to follow him.

After a long while of walking in silence, concern set in. It wasn’t quite panic that was consuming him but a kind of dread. Jazz didn’t want to leave for the night on such a sour note. He knew more than most how Prowl could sit for joors and just _think_. One doubt could be turned into a horde of uncertainties. Jazz couldn’t take the thought of any one worry Prowl had of him and all they had done to be spun into more than what it was.

When they finally approached his door, they stood in front of it, lingering over what to do with themselves.

“Did I get you in trouble?” Jazz asked, succumbing to insecurities. “Either tonight or in the garden.”

“No.” Prowl stared at the ground, fidgeting. “Those mechs do not know which house I am of, and they would have no means of knowing who you are. The only people who know you are here are family and government officials.”

“And Faze?”

“A coward. And he has no reason to meddle in political agendas.”

Jazz watched as Prowl continued to work his servos, as the hands meshed, intertwined, and pulled apart in a nervous dance. “What’s bothering you then?”

Prowl cycled his vents, slowly and with a calming purpose. “Most everyone I spoke with had nothing but inappropriate comments and rude compliments to say about you. I had no idea the extent to which my people could be ignorant. I apologize for their…for them.”

“It ain’t on you, Prowler. Besides, I shouldn’t’ve pushed anyone.”

“I know,” Prowl admitted. “It’s just that after the cycle’s events, all that I had known in my youth is foreign to me, now.” He settled his servos on his hips, gazing down at his body, thinned by the modifiers. “I feel lost in a way I haven’t since first moving to Tyger Pax. As though all that defined me once is gone, corrupted by my experience of other people and ideas.”

Jazz allowed his lover’s words to absorb, taking in all their meanings. He had thought they shared a common experience in moving from their homes, but perhaps he was wrong. When he moved to Iacon, he brought his culture with him. If all else failed, he still had his pride in his origins. And there were others to speak with in his native language. There were places for him to practice his faith. Jazz couldn’t imagine losing all of that.

“Not all of this is bad,” Jazz assured. After quickly scanning the hall and finding it empty, he cupped Prowl’s jawline, caressing a cheek. “You just took all the good parts with you.”

Prowl scoffed but didn’t budge. He let their gazes lock, reveling in the calm it brought him. Slowly, the tension that had seized him eased away. Jazz’s other hand wrapped around the back of Prowl’s neck and rubbed at the plating there. Prowl melted into the touch, lifting his own servos to pull Jazz against him.

The kiss felt almost involuntary. It was quiet and calm and didn’t overstay its welcome, despite how it left Jazz wanting more. And when they pulled away, they kept their foreheads pressed together, as if their thoughts could be effortlessly transferred through the intimate contact.

“I’m sorry,” Jazz whispered, speaking before he registered his own thoughts.

“Thank you,” Prowl whispered back. He nuzzled Jazz’s face, then admitted, “It was mildly entertaining to watch you educate my family, though.”

Jazz chuckled, leaning in slightly to give him a quick peck. “I’ll still watch my tone, especially tomorrow.”

Prowl hummed in agreeance. “Do you think we’re prepared?” he asked quietly.

“I think so.”

“Your confidence is commendable.”

Jazz chuckled again, louder this time, the deep sound resonating down the long hall. “We can go over it a little more, if you’d like,” he suggested coyly.

Prowl pressed closer, his grin felt rather than seen given their proximity. “Let’s.”

They separated briefly to fiddle with the room’s keypad. Once it opened, the pair entered, hand-in-hand.

Translations:

“Jazz was a musician before he changed to politics.”

“Perhaps he should have stayed with music. It suits them.”

“They seem to believe there is a religious connection to their eyes. How is that the same?”

“Would you feel comfortable if a stranger were to handle your clothes?”

“You would defend this foreigner over a family member?”

“I will defend the honorable and those able to relinquish their pride.”

“I thank you all for attending the gathering in my honor. It was a pleasure to visit with each of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do want to address the reason behind my delay, but I'm placing a warning before it for anyone uncomfortable with discussions of death and loss. 
> 
> Someone I was very close to recently committed suicide, so I needed some time to come to terms with them being gone. I want to mention this out of a love for anyone in this world struggling with depression and severe negativities that may drive them to end their life. My friend, please, find the parts of life you hold dear or the little things that only happen because you are there to make them happen. Even if it's small to you, your contribution to the universe could mean the world to someone or something else. Please keep all of our brothers/sisters/or others who deal with these struggles and the loved ones who care so deeply for them in your heart. 
> 
> Stay safe everyone. Stay kind. And love one another.


	7. Reason Comes in the Common Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl and Jazz appear before the rulers of Praxus. Then they celebrate. 
> 
> Chapter title from Hozier's "Moment's Silence (Common Tongue)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter. Not sorry.
> 
> Warning for the "Sensual Play" tag. There are some sexy times in this chapter (though not interfacing).

When Prowl awoke, it was not to the morning light streaming into his room or the faint scent of crystal gardens. Instead of his berth’s usual chill, he felt warm, like he was surrounded by something comforting. When he onlined his optics, he was staring into a distorted image of himself reflected on Jazz’s dimmed visor.

He jolted upright, recoiling from the loose embrace and nearly falling off the berth. Prowl glanced around, realizing sluggishly he was still in the guest room, and a quick check of his chronometer proved it was early the next morning. He cursed quietly, panic flooding him as he came to terms with the boundaries they had overstepped.

His lover shifting casually drew his attention back to the berth’s other occupant. Jazz’s features were soft and relaxed as he slowing came online. Once his visor fully lit up, he smiled goofily.

“Heya, Prowler,” he greeted, tone pleasantly rough. Prowl just stared at him blankly, watching with envy as Jazz stretched and idly settled on his back. “It’s too early, babe, let’s sleep some more.”

“You don’t care?” Prowl asked, his wings hiking up in alarm.

Jazz lulled his head to look up at him, frowning. “’Bout what?”

Prowl gestured between them. “This!” he exclaimed. If he had any other words to describe the scene and all its flaws, they had abandoned him as he worked his mouth, struggling with articulation.

His lover smirked and flopped an arm across Prowl’s side of the berth. “Not like anything happened.”

Prowl’s mind hit a wall. The statement was truthful, but there was something subtly incorrect in it that he couldn’t piece together.

“Prowler,” Jazz called lazily, “come chill with me.”

Unable to form any sort of argument against returning to the pleasant domain he had woken to, Prowl begrudgingly crawled back over. He situated himself on his side once more, Jazz throwing the arm Prowl wasn’t resting on over the Praxian’s waist, tugging them closer. After a few adjustments, their fronts were pressed comfortably together, Jazz hugging Prowl close as his lover snuggled himself into the secure hold with a frown.

“Loosen up,” Jazz said, squeezing Prowl’s tense frame for emphasis. “We were just recharging.”

“Next to each other,” Prowl muttered. “In a berth. All night.”

“Yup.”

“Shouldn’t have.”

The hug broke apart so Jazz could cup his face, encouraging Prowl to look at him. “You got the words yet?”

Prowl frowned at how clear his lack of function was. “…No.”

“Then doze a bit,” Jazz suggested, bringing his arm back to Prowl’s waist and dimming his visor. “Sleep now, talk later.”

Prowl couldn’t disagree with that. He let himself sink into Jazz, inhaling his scents and melting into the light hum of his engines. Anxiety was the only thing keeping him from returning to recharge. It was his fault for staying so late, as nice as the evening had been. Reviewing their political materials aside, their time spent playing strategy games and the easy conversations that had followed were wonderful. Their only mistake was moving their late-night talk to the berth.

This was a gateway action, though, despite how fantastic it felt to lay there smothered in Jazz. If they couldn’t be trusted to control where they slept, then what would keep them from turning a make-out session into something much more physical?

“Hey.”

The soft sound stirred Prowl from his frantic musing. He checked his chrono, noting it had been nearly half a joor. “Hello.”

“Any better?”

Prowl buried his face in the crook of Jazz’s shoulder. “Undecided.”

Jazz’s deep laugh shook his frame, and Prowl pressed closer in hopes of absorbing whatever joy he was evidently experiencing. It didn’t work, of course, but the proximity did feel nice.

“I don’t even remember what we were talking about,” Jazz laughed.

“Neither do I. But the point is that this cannot happen again.”

“Any reason why?”

“Because of what may follow.”

Jazz hummed, giving Prowl the impression that he understood, at least to some degree. “But we didn’t,” he pointed out again.

“Next time we might.” Prowl pulled away so Jazz could see how serious he was. But Jazz met his intensity with a playful grin.

“You think we have _that_ little control?”

Retorts were thought up, but they died before they left Prowl’s mouth.

“If you don’t think so, that’s fine.”

Prowl shook his helm in the negative. “I don’t doubt us, but I would rather we not place ourselves in a position of temptation.” At Jazz’s gentle tug, he sunk into Jazz’s neck, reaching around to hold him as well. “My fear is,” he explained, thinking through his thoughts before he voiced them, “if we rush this now, then we’ll ruin what we’ve made.”

Jazz nodded against his helm. “If we push hard in the first leg of the race, we’ll burn out before we reach the finish line.”

Prowl analyzed the analogy, stunned by how quickly Jazz was able to form comparisons this soon out of recharge. “Yes, precisely.”

“I get it, then.” He tilted his head, so his cheek rested on Prowl’s helm next to his chevron. “Helps to know how long the race is.”

Prowl hummed in thought. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

Jazz laughed again, making Prowl’s spark flutter. “I get what you mean, but just know I go with whatever flow we got. In no rush, got no hesitations. I trust us not to do something stupid.”

That was well known already and was a quality Prowl both admired and despised. He longed for the ability to be so sure in himself and his character, but at the same time, reason was what allowed him to pause and consider consequences. Whether Jazz’s mentality was the better approach here, Prowl would have to decide later.

“We need to be ready in a joor,” he said absently, leaning his helm up to nuzzle against Jazz and place a quick kiss to the cheek he could reach.

Jazz shifted to kiss him properly, smiling contently into the touch. “I do like waking up to this.”

Prowl pulled himself closer, so they were level with each other. “Move forward with me slowly, and this may become our norm.”

Jazz’s engines rumbled, and he seized Prowl’s mouth again, putting a bit more emotion into the act. He worked his mouth, encouraging Prowl to open his. Slowly, Prowl’s hand wondered a little lower down Jazz’s back as they moved against each other. Prowl let himself tip Jazz onto his back, following through to lay across him and straddle his waist.

A large, impractical part of Prowl wanted terribly to continue, his hesitations from moments before pushed to the back of his mind as Jazz sent pleasure coursing through him with simple touches. But his morals won his desires over, and he separated from Jazz decisively.

“I change my mind. I do have doubts about our level of control.”

Jazz stared up at him, grinning like he was in a daze. “Point there, yeah.” He tightened his grip on Prowl’s thighs, his gaze wondering over the frame sitting atop him. “Yeah, we may want to get up now.”

For all that he wanted to maintain his stance on the matter, Prowl found it a difficult task to move. It was magnificent to feel Jazz under him, completely at ease. That he was a brilliant kisser didn’t help his resolve. With a huff, Prowl rolled off him and swiftly moved to stand on the other side of the berth.

“Boundaries will need to be decided.”

Jazz stretched as he sat up. “Probably.” He glanced over to the game they had left out the night before and their notes for the meeting this morning. “Want to run through some of that before we go see your family?” he asked with a cheeky smirk.

He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but Prowl was also fully aware of their flushed frames. It was an indecent state no creator in their right mind would overlook. Prowl didn’t answer right away, instead walking over to their piles of notes.

Further exchange wasn’t necessary. Jazz was by his side in a klick, his vents working to cool his frame, professionalism taking over.

Jazz couldn’t remember the last time he felt so bored.

For what seemed like vorns, he had sat still, listening as people droned on and on about some policy or other. He was beginning to think Orion Pax was an idiot for sending him here as anything more than Prowl’s guard. How was he supposed to pay attention to a committee of people speaking with such monotony?

He reminded himself to keep listening, to be mindful that someone was likely to ask him a question or request his input. A rare occurrence, but it would reflect poorly on the Autobots and on Prowl if he made a fool of himself.

With hopefully subtle movements, Jazz sat up straighter and glanced around. The semicircle of Senators sat behind a long, elegant desk were as present and attentive as they had been joors ago. Jazz envied their ability to focus, creepy as their unmoving forms were. Twenty six secondary senators, two for each district of Praxus. But the mech to win over was the Sentry. Jazz observed the numerical runes adorning each senator’s placement, wondering if any of them realized the irony. Senators ruling over Praxus as if they held the power, when it was really their elected official who ruled over them.

The similarities to the High Council unnerved him, but Jazz decided that was a thought for later. These people had no more love for Cybertron’s current governing body than he did, and that connection needed to be his main focus.

Praxus and the Autobots shared commonalities. That was what needed to be emphasized.

It took Jazz a moment to realize he was making eye contact with the Sentry. The Praxian was staring into his visor as though he desired to pull out of him all his intentions and put them on display. His proud doorwings he held steady under their garment, an intricate material that brought out the white and gold of his frame and the red of his chevron.

Jazz stared right back, idly listening in as Prowl began to speak, opening the discussions for trade in their desired partnership. The Sentry appeared to be paying as much attention as Jazz was, though, instead focusing on the foreigner asking him to lay down generations of traditions and attitudes for a potential he wanted no part of.

Well, he wasn’t _really_ asking anything of him. Jazz tilted his helm in question. He had said very little throughout this process, heeding the unspoken advice of the ambassadors to silence his accented voice and let Prowl lead. But the Sentry eyed him, inclining his helm as if to lure him. A small movement. One Jazz would never have noticed orns ago when he barely knew Prowl and his subtle tells.

This was an invitation, Jazz realized. It was a test of how in-tune he truly was to their ways. What Prowl was saying mattered logistically, but the Sentry was no fool. He would never relinquish any sort of control to just anyone with a knowledge of how treaties worked.

Jazz nodded that he understood, refusing to break eye contact with Praxus’s most influential.

For a few breems more, Prowl drew what conclusions he needed to. He laminated that the world was changing, that resources and trust would become limited commodities, that isolation ought to be traded for cooperation in the coming conflict.

When Prowl sat back down next to Jazz, it was with a small ex-vent and a field smothered with nerves. Jazz let his calm filter into their mingled fields, assuring his lover that he had done his part for their cause.

The Sentry rose, the other senators quickly concealing their surprise. He maintained his focus on Jazz as he addressed them.

“You were trained in your House as a politician, Prowl. Such skills with words are clear, even in this inferior dialect.” He lifted his chin at Jazz slightly, just enough to signal to him.

Beside him, Prowl stiffened, but an “accidental” brush of his hand over Prowl’s arm as Jazz stood reassured him.

All eyes bore into Jazz, an intense weight blanketing him as he continued his staring contest with the Sentry and began to speak for the first time in joors.

“Praxus is beautiful,” Jazz began, articulating as clearly as he could. “I admire the architecture, the music, the scenery. Prowl took me to see one of your gardens, and I can’t find the words—in any language—to convey how awe-inspiring they were. Prowl’s family taught me that the crystals grow slowly over hundreds of vorns. They, for me, are a prime representative for your culture. Enchanting, intricate, and cultivated by the efforts of generations. We didn’t come here to change that. Our goal is to preserve your ways, like you preserve the gardens in the district centers.”

Jazz glanced to Prowl as much as he could without moving his helm, noting how rigid his lover had gone, no doubt mortified at his going off script. Looking back up at the Sentry, Jazz was met with intrigue.

“You believe so adamantly the conflicts plaguing your world will interfere with Praxus,” the Sentry surmised. “How is it, when no previous foreign affairs have troubled our sovereign state?”

“Because this time, Praxus will be targeted,” Jazz explained, hoping his words inspired the senators to listen, not fear. “This movement started in Kaon has no intentions of showing any mercy to those who don’t agree with them. They’ll view Praxus not as a crystal garden, but as a weed not meant to exist.” He paused for a beat, letting his words sink in and the translator catch up. “The Decepticons and the High Council both want Praxus, and those city-states wishing to form a unique identity as you have, to be absorbed into their mentalities. But the Autobots want to coexist with other cultures across Cybertron. We want Praxus to survive what’s to come.”

The Sentry inclined his helm, only adding to the impression of him towering over the pair. His steady gaze coupled with anticipation sent shivers coursing through Jazz’s circuitry. “What assurance do you offer that other outsiders share your views?”

Jazz gestured to Prowl, his lover feigning calm once the attention was placed on him. “My co-worker, Prowl. It was his words that convinced the Autobots to open doors of communications with you. His passion for his home and for his people echoes our own sentiments about Iacon, and he’s been more than willing to teach others of the importance of saving your customs and your people.

“Prowl is the one who made me realize that this discussion is about more than just a partnership between Praxus and the Autobots. This is about the significance of recognizing the beautiful,” Jazz concluded, gesturing up at the Sentry with an honest smile.

There was a lot now riding on his natural charisma, and Jazz sent a quick prayer to Primus the gamble was worth wild.

The Sentry descended into his seat, filling the heavy air with finality. His gaze still locked on the foreigner in his court, he spoke again. “It would seem, your government and mine have reached a level of understanding not obtained since our treaty with Vos long before this Golden Age.”

Jazz could have collapsed with relief, but he controlled himself, maintaining the eye contact as he also sat back down next to Prowl. He spared a glimpse at his lover’s relaxing features, satisfied to have affirmed Prowl’s faith in him.

“It is decided then,” Prowl announced, his voice as collected and commanding as the Sentry’s, at least to Jazz. “In the event of a world war or further, incomparable revolutionary actions on the part of the Cybertronian High Council or the Decepticon Cause, Praxus shall send its aid to the Autobot defenders.”

“While not aligning our nation in said conflict,” the Sentry clarified. “In return, after we have assured the Autobots will regain power, your established, governing body will recognize Praxus sovereignty, open trade between our nations, and repay any and all war depts.”

“Agreed,” Prowl said with a controlled nod.

The Sentry finally looked away to assess the senators on either side of him. “The court is permitted a veto.” When only ten of the twenty-six opposed, the Sentry extended a flattened servo, outer side facing down. He held the hand aloft for several tense klicks before methodically bring it down to the table, a slow slash in the air in the direction of the pair.

Jazz grinned at the display of their victory, nodding to the Sentry to convey his thanks. Beside him, Prowl stood, bending into a bow as he spoke.

“Welcome, Praxus, to the Autobots.”

Prowl could not recall a time he had felt so stressed.

The meeting with the ambassadors now seemed like nothing compared this morning. At least the cycle before, half of their side of the debate was carried by Jazz. It was daunting walking into the conference room of senators and the Sentry knowing his partner would have a limited role, the burden falling primarily on Prowl.

He felt they were running towards nothing for the first few joors. The leaders of Praxus gave no indication they were of open mind, no matter the facts and scenarios Prowl provided them. They were absorbing his content, likely even calculating what would need to be done in order to protect Praxus without foreign aid, but his suggestion to join their cause was not an attractive option. When there was nothing more he could say, having detailed the nature of their treaty and every aspect of such a partnership, Prowl had sunk into his distress as he sat down next to Jazz. He had let his mind race to find what else could be said, barely registering as the Sentry called upon the opinion of his lover.

When Jazz had stood, with a confidence and suave he could never hope to match, Prowl’s systems ran cold. Not with distrust in what might come from Jazz, but he feared that what progress they had made would perish simply by him speaking.

That was not the case. Prowl had done what he could not to gawk, but the words streaming from his charming companion caused something deep within him to stir. Pride was not an emotion he had felt for some time, and he nearly swooned under the wave of it, especially as the Sentry brought his hand down, securing their victory.

Now, that pride bordered on arrogance. How foolish the ambassadors were to have ever suggested Jazz be silenced. It was his charm and way with people that convinced the powerful to consider the helpless, the wealthy to give away what they had, and the apathic to feel again.

And how foolish of him to have allowed the views of others to suppress his lover. Prowl understood better now, there was no containing the phenomenon that was Jazz.

He struggled to suppress his smirk, watching as Jazz capitalized on his newfound popularity. Prowl was well aware most of the senators who had voted for the arrangement had only done so to maintain favor with Sentry Parity, but they put on a passable display of cooperation in front of Jazz.

Pride filled him once more as Jazz laughed, a deep and infectious melody that brought out smiles from even Praxus senators, small as the expressions were.

Scanning the room, Prowl made note of who still refused to greet their new ally. The grand hall was filled with each of the twenty-six senators, some of their advisors, ambassadors, and, situated at the helm of a long table, Sentry Parity. The largest of the crowds surrounded Jazz while others remained in smaller pockets throughout the room. Senators of the same politics conversed, the only mixing happening near the foreigner. Prowl’s own district’s senators, Accord and Tedium, stood in a far corner amongst their allies, staring with poorly hidden distain at Jazz.

Their opinions no longer mattered, Prowl reminded himself. By the end of this banquet, the treaty would be formally signed and Praxus’s long history of solitude broken. A monstrosity to many, especially those who would quake when tradition fell. But that was now a personal issue to attend to.

Jazz laughed again, demanding Prowl’s full attention. From his place leaned against the wall but a few paces away, Prowl had a clear few of his lover. He watched as Jazz did as Jazz does, discussing openly his ideals of appreciating other people and the arts, expressing his admiration of Praxian culture. Those surrounding him seemed to rise as their own pride was elevated at the praise, agreeing wholly in the idea that Praxus was worth the worshiping.

Prowl might have commented on their hubris were he and Jazz alone. For now, though, he bided his time until this night was over. He relaxed under the melody that was Jazz’s smooth, rumbling voice superseding all other noise in the banquet hall.

When they returned from the evening’s banquet, documents and forms signed and legalized, it was to a quiet house. Prowl led them through the estate, grabbing themselves cubes before leading them back to his room.

This late into the cycle with Luna 2 hanging high in the dark, shimmering sky, Prowl’s room was bathed in soft moonlight. The setting felt intimate and sensual, and coupled with the cycle’s events, Jazz was feeling the best kind of on-edge. He looked on as Prowl removed his flowy garment to reveal the plating hidden beneath, recalling the night he had painted that frame and all other moments he had held his lover. Jazz bet he could sculpt Prowl just by the memories of feeling him with a bit more time and practice.

Jazz cycled his vents, trying to clear his mind of wanton thoughts and phantom feelings. It had been marvelous waking up to Prowl, rattled as his lover had been, and Jazz wasn’t about to ruin what they had become by succumbing to temptations. Quickly, he scanned the room for an adequate distraction.

“Hey,” he called, causing Prowl to spin around to look over at him as he walked across the common room to a shelving unit. Jazz grabbed a random box off it, shaking it over his head with a grin. “Want to play?”

Board games, especially those involving extreme amounts of planning and thought, Jazz had learned were Prowl’s favorite group activity. They never failed to make him more confident and happier, and this cycle was no different. Riding on the high of their trip’s success, Prowl was eager to continue his winning streak.

Jazz couldn’t help but giggle when, a joor later, they were lying on the ground like younglings, snacking on well-deserved goodies.

“What?” Prowl asked, smirking at him as though he knew Jazz was aware of something he wasn’t.

He grinned wider. “Nothing,” he said, watching as Prowl’s doorwings fluttered back and forth happily. “You’re just cute.”

Prowl snorted and grabbed another treat. “You are just attempting to distract me.”

“From the game?”

“What else?” Prowl stared at the board and the pawns he had yet to move. “You fear that I shall win again.”

Jazz giggled harder at the careful wording, letting his helm fall into his arms crossed in front of him. He let the comfortable silence that followed continue for a few klicks as Prowl refused to make his move.

“Babe, it’s your turn.”

Prowl hummed dismissively. His hand lifted to move a pawn, then retracted as he thought better of it.

“Prowler—”

“I’m thinking.”

Jazz shook his helm, laughing softly. He could see the gears turning in Prowl’s processor, considering every possible outcome. Eventually, he made a decision, blocking Jazz’s intended next move. The harder Jazz thought through his change of plans, the more he realized Prowl had all but won the round.

Well, the only solution, now, was to distract and randomize. He still wouldn’t win, but the loss would be more entertaining.

“So,” he said causally. “How about for each turn, we ask the other a question. Then we both got to answer it.” Jazz placed a weaker pawn in a position of power, hoping to throw Prowl off.

“Questions such as?” Prowl asked. He hesitated on his next move, eyeing the strange placement of the game piece with suspicion.

“Here, I’ll go first, then.” Jazz shifted, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “What’s your favorite color?”

Prowl nodded, realizing now what Jazz was meaning. “Blue. And you?”

Jazz dazzled his lover with a smile, his spark fluttering. “Blue,” he admitted.

Prowl hummed with interest, then motioned at the board. Jazz got the hint and moved another piece, this one to its certain doom.

“Now my turn, yes?” Prowl’s wings flapped as he thought. “Are you proud of yourself? In reference to today and your overall life thus far.”

Not the kind of question Jazz had expected, but the flattery hidden in it warmed him. He matched Prowl’s thoughtful approach, mulling over his life, over all his accomplishments and shortcomings.

“Yeah,” he answered, “yeah, I am. I’ve done a lot to improve myself and help other people. And today, it felt good to do something historical, you know?”

Prowl nodded, a contemplative gleam in his eyes. “I do. And I, too, am proud of the mech you have become and the life you lead.” He let loose one of his small, spark clinching smiles. “Words fail to describe how much I admire you.”

Jazz vented slowly, so overcome with some kind of emotion that he barely registered the move Prowl made until he was told it was his turn.

“Right.” Jazz gazed at the board, not really seeing it. “So…do you think I’m, uh…like sexy or attractive?”

Prowl coughed, his face flushing from the drastic shift in topics. After recovering for a klick, he replied, “Yes, I do. A great deal actually.” He favored Jazz with an appreciative gaze. “And you?”

“Yeah, I think I’m sexy,” he jested with a cheeky smirk. As much as Jazz grinned, Prowl’s unamused frown persisted. “Prowler, I find you incredibly sexy. Didn’t ever think I’d need to say it.” He saw a chance to remove one of Prowl’s pawns and took it, despite the sacrifice to one of his own.

“What of me do you find enticing?”

“That really your question?”

“Yes, now answer it.”

Jazz chuckled and rearranged his weight on his arms. “Physically, your face and hips. But I could write a whole song just about your personality.”

“What a boring lyrist you are,” Prowl muttered, his tone sarcastically dry. The way he analyzed Jazz, though, was intensely penetrating, as if he were searching through his very thoughts and primal desires. “My face?”

“Well, yeah.” Jazz wiggled closer, minding the board game, to poke at Prowl’s mouth. “That little smile you wear, it’s one of my favorite views.”

Prowl caught the servo invading his personal space, massaging the plating before releasing it. “I expected my wings to be on your list,” he admitted.

“Once I get my hands on them, they will be.” Jazz arched his brows playfully, a move masked by his visor, but he was sure Prowl could pick up the rest of his facial cues to get the gist. “Now you, Prowler.”

That small smirk returned. “You tend to hold your shoulders behind you which arches your back. It’s a pleasing sight. And your voice is rather alluring.” He refocused on the board, plotting his next play. “As for the nonphysical, to put it shortly, I find your easy nature draws me in to you.” Prowl made his move, placing another powerful pawn in Jazz’s territory.

“Alright,” Jazz commented, both to the game and Prowl’s answer. Now conscious of their position, he rolled his shoulders back, noting how his spinal struts bent and forced his front further onto the floor. “How about where you want to live. Like, imagine a perfect world. You can live anywhere, we got a good thing going, and there ain’t riots or nothing going on.”

Prowl hummed, resting his chin in a hand. “Iacon. The more expensive area by the valley with the wonderful education system and job opportunities.”

Jazz shook his helm, internalizing the humor of his lover’s practical mind. But the response was not what he had expected. “You’d really want to? After all the…the flaws you mentioned?”

“The scenario you posed was that of a perfect world,” Prowl pointed out. “In that case, there would be no issues with traveling between here and Iacon and no functionalism to keep me from calling it home. And I am sure I could never return to this.” He gestured to their surrounds, to the storytelling glass, the displayed artwork, and the overgrown gardens. “If you had asked me that orns ago, I might have lied to both you and myself and adamantly proclaimed I would live in Praxus. I can see more now.”

“Even in a perfect world, you’d still choose Iacon over here?”

Prowl shook his head with a knowing smile. “Your turn to answer.”

“Easy, I’d live in that high end place in Iacon with all the night life and trails in that valley.” It took Jazz longer than he cared to admit to make the connection. When he finally did, he locked his gaze with Prowl, staring into the compassion-filled azure orbs in wonder. Prowl had actually paid such close attention to him.

“Your move.”

Brought back out of his trance, Jazz glanced at the board, moving a random piece without much care for forethought.

“Say we lived in this perfect world,” Prowl posed. “We owned a home in Iacon and could pursue whatever career we wanted. What would you want to do?”

That took little thought. It was a dream he had grown up with and still held affection for, despite reality. “Musician. Not just some entertainer hosting parties and playing other people’s work over speakers. I’ve always wanted to write my own music and perform it. Still do, now I just know it ain’t a possibility.”

“Being an artist suits you,” Prowl agreed. “Being a business owner is a far more stable career, but I see no reason you can’t continue your passions outside of other life requirements.”

He had considered that numerous times, but the limitations of time always succeeded in stopping him. Perhaps with Prowl, though, that could change. “How about you?”

“Enforcement. Part of the reason I left Praxus was to pursue my own career goals, and I have.” Prowl’s wings hiked up at the feeling of accomplishment before relaxing and fluttering again. He took a moment to analyze the board then succeeded in removing two of Jazz’s pieces from the game.

The mood shifted, almost like the air was heavier. They could very well enter a serious territory, and Jazz considered backtracking to more tame questions. But the longer he looked at Prowl, the more he realized how much he wanted to know more about his lover’s core.

“Alright,” he began, “we still living in that perfect world. You and me got a nice home, we said our vows, bonded our sparks. What about that next step?” Jazz shifted to relieve a servo to gesture with. “I mean, like, do we take on Vector Sigma new sparks, or do we have sparklings…or neither?”

Prowl didn’t look up at him, keeping his eyes downcast. Jazz panicked, thinking perhaps he had crossed some line he didn’t know about, but then Prowl readjusted, staring off to the side at some sight out the window.

“My answer requires some explanation.” He took a moment to consider his choice of words. “Here, Praxus abides by a binary system of categorization similar to Vos, though not as constraining. We decide based on emergence order which creations are designated carriers and which are sires. It alternates, starting with the eldest as carriers.”

After a beat of quiet, Jazz asked, “So you’re only allowed to carry sparklings?”

Prowl nodded, finally turning to face him. “The role of carriers is to legitimately carry the burdens of the family. We own all properties and valuables, and it is through us that titles are inherited.” He shrugged. “It made sense to me once, given that carriers are the life givers and sires are merely there to support and protect, but for as much responsibility and prestige is placed in the role, decisions of politics and careers fall to sires.” Prowl motioned to him with an empty smile. “Hence my desire to seek out my passions elsewhere.”

“And your attachment to home,” Jazz nodded, pondering what life would be like under such arbitrary limitations.

“There are taboos that accompany this,” Prowl continued. “As a carrier, I could only court sires. And even if I were to bond properly, I could never sire younglings as they would be labeled illegitimate. I am also obligated to produce at least one heir, so the estate and my family’s name can continue into the next generation. So,” he huffed, refocusing on the game, “I have only ever seen the roles as either wrong or as a chore mandated of me.”

His reasoning made sense, but the answer was still disheartening. Prowl must have picked up on his uncertainty because he reached across the game to grasp his chin, lifting Jazz’s gaze to him.

“That is not to say I am opposed to the idea,” he clarified. “Simply that the concept has different connotations to me.”

That was more reassuring. Jazz smiled, taking the hand on his face and pressing it against his mouth in a gentle kiss. “I get you. Just that younglings have always been something I wanted.” His grin turned more genuine as he voiced his dreams for a future. “I loved how close I was with my creators. They couldn’t afford more creations, though, so it had been just me. Then I met people like Blaster who have this network of family, and the thought of making that with someone I love just seemed…it seems so peaceful or…,” he shook his helm, “I ain’t got the words.”

“I still understand.” Prowl retracted his hand to clasp it with Jazz’s. “My ideas regarding creation and family are evolving, in no small part due to you.” He tightened his grip and smiled. “I can see myself, eventually, entertaining the thought of manifesting us into another life.”

Jazz’s spark spun at Prowl’s way with words. He hadn’t considered creations as more than simply people to associate with, with the added bonus of fostering certain traits in them as they grew older. The romanticized notion Prowl described, though, sounded like poetry.

“My turn,” Prowl said, returning his hand to his side of the game board. “When did you realize you lost another round?”

Jazz grinned, laughter bubbling out him and shaking his frame. “While ago. Prowler, you owned me. Twice!”

Prowl rose to his knees and stretched. “A draw then?”

“How humble of you.” He mirrored Prowl, glancing around the room for a distraction. No mech had any right to look as good as Prowl did as he extended his arms over his head and fanned his wings. Gleaming as he was in the soft light, Prowl was a sight to behold.

“I would actually like to discuss a matter with you. Concerning us,” Prowl said, motioning between themselves.

Jazz hummed his query, side-eyeing his lover to check what position he was in before he faced Prowl fully. He tried not to let the bit of fear that ignited consume him.

Prowl rose to his peds in a single, elegant motion then made his way towards one of the large flat couches occupying his room. A flick of his wings beckoned Jazz to follow. “Come sit with me.”

He’d have been a fool not to. Jazz stood almost to quickly, nearly falling forward as he tried to walk before he was fully upright. His thoughts wondered to early that morning, to the flustered lover he had woken to and the anxiety the event had created. Prowl had mentioned boundaries, though Jazz had been far too occupied to consider needing them. As far as he was concerned, there was enough trust between them for mistakes to not happen. Clearly, Prowl thought otherwise, and he intended to set some rules.

That didn’t mean Jazz didn’t sit close, letting their legs brush and faintly intertwine comfortably as he rested his weight on a servo. Besides, Prowl didn’t seem to mind if his subtle wiggle closer was anything to go by.

“This morning might have gone too far.”

Jazz made to nod but his head went still as the “might” finally registered. “Yeah,” he agreed, not as sure what was going on as he was a moment ago.

Prowl shifted again, his eyes tracking Jazz’s frame intently enough he all but traced his transformation seams. “You said you were confident in our ability to…stop, if the need arises.”

His frame tingled pleasantly, and he had to cycle his vents to cool himself. “I do, yeah,” he said and let his voice drop into a raspy baritone. “I trust you.” With his free hand, Jazz reached over and traced the plating framing Prowl’s handsome face, causing his lover’s vents to hitch.

“I was wrong in believing your methods would hinder our attempts at brokering a treaty,” Prowl explained, his optics falling into Jazz’s visor. “Perhaps I am wrong to think rules must be set to move forward with you.”

A hand found Jazz’s waist and tugged them closer. Jazz pressed his mouth into a thin line, forcing his mind to work and form coherent thoughts. “What you want to do then?”

Prowl stiffened with anticipation. “I would like…I’d like to explore that. If, that is, you are willing.”

Of course, Jazz was not an idiot, but he also knew Prowl better than most. There were times he was right, and times Prowl was. But usually, the right thing to do seemed to fall somewhere between their methods. “We can still say what we are and aren’t willing to do,” he offered. “Set a pace, you know?”

Prowl visibly relaxed, his doorwings hanging lower and his whole body loosing. “That would work.”

Jazz smiled at his little victory. He traced down Prowl’s face, running a digit over his chest to rest his hand at Prowl’s torso, gripping the plating there. “We could do a thing or two,” he suggested, massaging Prowl’s side and earning himself the sound of vents kicking on. “And we say what feels good—” he leaned in “—what we don’t want to do yet—” he lifted a leg, sliding it up into Prowl’s lap “—and what we both cool with.”

The hand adoring his waist slid down to the back of his knee, encouraging Jazz to follow the move through. He obliged, shuffling to plant his aft on Prowl’s legs, rolling his hips to get comfortable.

“I think…” Prowl paused, looking Jazz up and down to analyzed the new positions. “I think I will test my faith in you. Let you lead.” He placed both his hands on Jazz’s hips to grip him. “But I would like to start above you.”

“Fine by me.” Jazz lifted himself so he was standing on his knees, straddling Prowl. With Praxian couches lacking a back rest, it was an easy motion to flop over onto his back next to Prowl. Jazz watched him reenact this morning’s pleasantries, running soft caresses along Prowl’s sides as he settled on his hands and knees above him.

“What do you prefer?” Prowl asked, scanning their position like he was planning out his next move. “You are the one with more experience.”

Jazz twisted under the scrutiny, his array sending him not-so-subtle messages on his HUD. “I’d do anything, Prowler. It’s your call,” he answered honestly, his voice deepening more. He tugged at the hips he held, testing where Prowl wanted to go.

The response was a positive one, his lover easing himself down to flush their fronts together. It was awkward for a few klicks as they tried to find where they fit together best, but the result was a wonderful feeling only such proximity could bring.

He could help but rock, grinding their hips softly enough not to transfer paint but giving enough friction to spark pleasurable tingles in his middle. Prowl seemed to agree. Their EM fields mingled, sharing with one another what their mindsets were. True to his word, Prowl let him lead, only beginning to move with him after a proper rhythm was set.

“How’s this?” Jazz asked.

“Good.”

Jazz arched his back to grind harder, in time with Prowl’s motions.

“Harder is nice,” Prowl admitted, his voice rough. “Not much more.”

“Got you.” He slowed, letting his hands wonder to the small of Prowl’s back. “Prowler?”

Prowl just hummed, his head lulling into Jazz’s neck.

“Overload or no?”

A question that, given his increasingly vulnerable state, warranted an answer. Sooner rather than later, but Prowl was apparently content to take his time thinking it over.

“Not the goal, but not opposed.”

That didn’t really help, but Jazz nodded anyway, the move constrained by Prowl’s head under him. He decided to shift his focus on his hands, maintaining their set pace. He found a random transformation seam on Prowl’s back and began to lightly trace it. The touch prompted Prowl to flinch, so he halted his motions entirely, waiting for an all-clear signal.

“Do not go near my wings yet.”

“Want me to avoid your back then?”

“Please.”

It would be a little awkward given what aspects of Prowl’s frame he had access to, but Jazz complied, nonetheless. He moved his hands down to Prowl’s sides, trailing them down his hips and ending on the thighs on either side of him.

Slowly, Prowl began to move again, grinding his array cover over Jazz’s pelvis. Jazz tightened his hold on his legs in response, pulling on them as he squirmed. Prowl’s mouth found his, and their physical intimacy paused as they connected.

Kissing Prowl was like a whole new form of communication. A language he was still learning. It was as messy and unfamiliar as it was unifying and transformative. Jazz parted his mouth as Prowl did the same, their glossas tangling together like separated lovers finally reuniting. Thighs forgotten, Jazz cupped the back of Prowl’s helm, dragging his lover into him. Prowl responded in kind, shoving one servo behind his neck while the other rediscovered Jazz’s hips.

Prowl’s moves were achingly methodic. He rolled his hips, gripped Jazz’s waist with his legs, and massaged plating like he was playing some kind of erotic instrument. The whole ordeal made Jazz moan into the kiss.

When they parted, it was merely so Prowl could press chaste kisses to his face. Then down to his chin. Then his neck. Jazz made a strained noise as Prowl moved on to his chest and shoulders.

“Prowler,” he gasped, dawning a cheeky smirk. “Ain’t I the one leading?”

Prowl hummed, his mouth pressing into the cables in his neck. “I am exploring.”

“I’d like to negotiate a change of place.” Jazz took his chin in his hand, bringing Prowl’s gaze to his visor. “I want to try something,” he rumbled.

The seduction worked as intended, Prowl arching an intrigued brow at the proposition. “I lay down, you above me?”

“Only fair,” Jazz reasoned. “If I can’t touch your back, I ought to have your front.”

Prowl nodded, rolling his hips again before sliding off. Jazz wasn’t about to let their proximity go, though. He let Prowl adjust until he was sitting, then quickly secured his place in Prowl’s lap. He captured Prowl in another kiss, pushing at him until Prowl was lying down, Jazz flush against him.

He shifted his knees under himself so he could arch up, giving his hands room to work on Prowl’s chassis. His lover made muffled noises into the kiss at the novel feelings and pushed himself further into the touch. Jazz ran his digits along seams, pinching at exposed cables and rubbing sensitive plating.

Some mental notes were also made. Prowl responded very eagerly to touches along his abdomen, but he was not as enthusiastic when it came to the outskirts of his chest. He didn’t seem to like his arms being held, but did like it when Jazz gripped his legs.

Jazz let his kisses paint a border around Prowl’s face, pausing hesitantly above the chevron until Prowl incline it to him. That was a sensitive area, Jazz knew. So, he moved on to Prowl’s neck, saving such pleasures for another time. Instead of simply kissing the area as Prowl had done to him, Jazz took a cable in his mouth and sucked, causing his lover’s engine to rev as he moaned.

He let his array cover grind against Prowl’s abdomen, grinning through the cable in his mouth at the warmth that flushed Prowl’s squirming frame. Jazz released his hold on his lover’s neck, putting his mouth on Prowl’s once more.

“Have you ever overloaded before?” he asked tauntingly, eliciting a curt shake of Prowl’s head. “It feels good, let me tell you.” Jazz pressed his digits into the plating just above Prowl’s pelvis. “That kind of…release.”

“Jazz,” Prowl hissed. “I want to.”

“Me too. But I got to know, first.” He ground their fronts together, the friction vibrating all the right places. “What’s this mean to you?”

Prowl reset his optics, his vents cycling hard. He reached up to Jazz’s helm, grasping at the audial horns atop it and prompting Jazz to rev his engines. “Connection,” he answered in a hushed tone. “Two people in a state of—a state of vulnerability. It binds them.”

“Would you do that with me?” Jazz massaged Prowl’s plating, hands inching down. “Say the word, and we stop.”

“Yes,” he said adamantly. “To continuing, I mean. I do not prescribe to the belief of a metaphorical transfer of life here.”

Jazz chuckled at the expensive words despite how preoccupied Prowl clearly was. He pressed on, his array becoming increasingly heated behind the covering, not helped by Prowl’s eager motions below him.

After another firm kiss to his mouth, Jazz asked in a low tone, “Are we opening covers? Cause I can make this quick or much…much longer.”

Prowl groaned, pressing his head back into the couch cushion as he struggled to think. A moment of consideration, and he let the sounds of a transformation be his cue. “I want you to introduce me to the sensation.”

“Prowler,” he grinned, his own cover away, “I can make you feel some kind of way. But we ain’t going to touch there, yet.” Jazz settled himself on the edge of Prowl’s pelvis armor, his servos moving to either side of Prowl’s helm.

“Agreed,” Prowl said slowly. He moved, rubbing Jazz’s exposed mesh against himself.

Jazz let his spike remain housed, enjoying the feeling of Prowl against his valve. He had to return the favor. As he let his lower half react as it pleased, he leaned in to shower Prowl’s front with light kisses. The foreplay afforded just a taste of what the responsive frame could experience, forcing the sensory network to heighten in order to feel the touches.

They fell into a broken rhythm, building until Jazz saw fit to test Prowl’s sensitivity. He was rewarded with a sharp gasp and Prowl pushing up into him. Jazz grinned as he put his mouth on him, nipping at the edges of plating. The movement his efforts inspired in Prowl caused more friction to ignite his valve.

“How about it, Prowler?” Jazz asked, mouth pressed to his chest, to the place above his lover’s spark. “Feel connected yet?”

Whatever Prowl said, it was completely incoherent. He was pulling at Jazz’s frame now, pleading to be nearer, to be relieved in a way only Jazz could grant. In their tangled fields, Jazz felt the loss of bodily control Prowl was experiencing and reassured him with a hard kiss to his mouth that it would be more than worth it.

“Where you going, Prowler?” he taunted, ghosting his lip plates just above Prowl’s. “Look at me, babe.” Prowl complied, directing the remainder of his focus to his brightened visor. Jazz cupped his face, kissing him again. “It’s just me. Me and you,” he rumbled, sliding up and down the pelvis and abdomen beneath him, riding through all the squirming. “Me and you, Prowler,” he sang, kissing him again.

Prowl made a strained noise, his frame suddenly tensing. Heat rolled off him, absorbed by Jazz’s frame, as he rode out this novel high. Static faintly wisped around them, sending shivers through Jazz’s spinal strut.

Once he relaxed, Prowl pulled him into another kiss, working his glossa along with his hands to find Jazz’s weak points. The endeavor was extraordinarily successful. With just the right dig into his back to hit a heightened sensor, Jazz was thrown into a wave of pleasure as he overloaded.

Was it the hardest he had ever crashed? No, not by a long shot. But Jazz was completely at ease basking in the vulnerable state so long as he was held by Prowl’s steady embrace.

They relished in the relief for a moment, vents slowing, their foreheads pressed together. Eventually, Prowl broke the silence.

“That was nice.”

Jazz laughed, easy and tired. “I don’t want to do any more than this.”

“Yes,” Prowl agreed in a hushed tone. “I don’t know that even this should be done often.”

Not a notion he really wanted to entertain, but Jazz understood. “It’s a way of talking we don’t always need.”

“And should not solely rely on.”

Jazz shifted to roll over on his side next to Prowl, closing his cover and minding the wings. “You good?”

Prowl’s own cover slide shut as he shuffled so he could caress Jazz’s face. “I am. And you?”

“Satisfied,” he smirked. “Felt like I needed that.” Prowl hummed, his optics growing heavy. “Hey,” he called, bringing Prowl back to full alertness. “It’s late. Let’s get cleaned up, and I can head back to my room.”

Prowl nodded and sat up. They worked in relative quiet, comfortable with one another to handle wiping frames down and ensuring each were passible. As much as he didn’t want to leave, Jazz was well aware how much peace the night apart would give Prowl. He helped pick up their forgotten game and treats, lingering by the door when they were through. Prowl mirrored him, eyes darting everywhere save the door and Jazz.

“My family has likely planned an event in our honor for before we leave,” Prowl mentioned, prolonging the inevitable. “But you could recharge late, if you so choose.”

Jazz waved the idea away, planting his servos on his hips. “I still need to pack, so I might be up anyway.”

“Wonderful.” Prowl shuffled, glancing between Jazz and the exist. “I do not want you to leave—”

“But it’s late,” Jazz agreed. He cupped Prowl’s face, guiding him into a kiss. “I’ll see you in the morning, Prowler.” Before he could find some excuse to stay, Jazz walked out the room.

Prowl watched as Jazz disappeared down the dark hallway. There was a pleasant buzz coursing through his systems, now, leaving the world feeling much simpler. Whatever was transpiring outside Praxus’s gates, such troubles were far away, blocked by the sounds of an otherwise silent room, his lover’s mouth on his frame.

Through the remaining haze, Prowl almost didn’t register a figure in the shadows. Smokescreen approached with quiet steps from the opposite end of the hall from where Jazz had gone. Prowl eyed him, searching his brother for any indication there was trust between them. Perhaps in the vorns away, Smokescreen might have changed his loyalties.

His brother didn’t speak, even after he came to a halt next to Prowl in front of the open door. They stood for several klicks before Prowl finally broke.

“Jazz and I were playing a game in celebration of our success,” he explained, hoping the half-truth was enough to convince.

Smokescreen scoffed. “Sure, you were.”

“I am not lying.”

“But not telling the whole truth.”

Smokescreen was staring at him intensely, making Prowl’s plating crawl. “What do you know?”

“That a high class carrier and a foreigner with a visor were seen making out in the gardens. That every night, the two of you stay up late together. In last night’s case, together till morning.”

Prowl went rigid with panic. “How?”

“I noticed something was going on with you two when you introduced him,” Smokescreen said casually, as if it ought to be common knowledge. He leaned against the wall next to the door frame. “You’re not great at keeping these things secret, Prowl. So, I kept tabs on you.”

“Your time was wasted.”

His brother shrugged. “All of that to say, be more careful. I’ve kept your scandals at bay before, but there’s no guarantee I can do it again.”

Prowl studied him, recalling any significant conversations they had had for an idea of what Smokescreen could want. Money and power were never an interest to him, especially given their lives. As a sire, no opportunity was limited, save inheriting the estate. If Prowl continued the path he was on, though, that would not become an issue with their creators only possessing two creations.

“You wish to rush your claim on the estate?” Prowl asked, uncertain that was inline with his brother’s core despite the sense it made.

Smokescreen huffed disappointedly. “The opposite,” he clarified. “This isn’t a threat, this is a query backed with an incentive. I want to leave.”

He extended a servo out for Prowl to take, the inner arm in clear view. Prowl held it, tracing the enlarged fuel lines spreading the plating apart, stopping when his brother flinched.

“Smokescreen,” he said, a sadness seeping into his voice. “How often are you injecting?”

He shook his head. “This place is forcing me to meet my limits. All the prestige that was intended for you has been thrust on me, and I can’t take it.” Smokescreen twisted his arm around to grasp onto his older brother. “I just need a place to stay once I’ve left. Please, I won’t be long. I won’t tell anyone what I know.”

There were several factors to consider, but only one truly mattered. What was done was done, there was no backtracking the progress Praxus had made by joining the Autobots. His love affair would only tarnish what little remained of his family ties, so Smokescreen confessing would amount to nothing.

Smokescreen must have realized this and turned to relying on guilt for motivation. But it broke Prowl to think his brother believed he needed to put so much effort behind asking for a simple request that was liable to save his life.

“If you can leave here, do so,” Prowl commanded. “And you stay with me as long as you need. The only exchange I ask for is your word that you will seek help.” He massaged his brother’s arms and the inflamed lines within them. “Do not concern yourself with hiding Jazz and me. Voice what you know if you must.”

Smokescreen looked up at him, perplexed. “But you—”

“I will be fine,” he argued. “All that I stand to lose now is precisely what you and I intend to escape.”

“I’m leaving for myself. And could still come back.” Smokescreen glanced around, looking to understand, then refocused on Prowl. “Jazz is worth actually losing _all_ of this?”

Prowl was surprised by how easily his response came to him. “Jazz is worth everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! If you caught on to the commonality in my chapter titles, then feel free to guess what the last chapter might be called. 
> 
> Stay safe! Stay happy! Stay kind!


	8. What I've Been Dreaming of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their last day in Praxus begins with another social gathering to wish Prowl a farewell. It goes downhill from there.
> 
> Chapter title from Hozier's "Dinner & Diatribes"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I've been busy the last few weeks! I definitely wanted to get this out much sooner, so sorry about that. Delay aside, here's the final chapter!

The banquet hall was once more filled with the idle conversation of Prowl’s extended family, the massive skylight letting sun beams rain down on the silver metal of the walls and floors and penetrate the crystal structures adoring the space. It was all highly reminiscent of the first family gathering of their Praxus trip. There was the same music, the same luxuries, the same people, the same atmosphere. One difference being that Jazz was now entertaining himself rather than remaining by Prowl’s side.

Another major difference was the relief. In addition to the goal of their trip having been completed, for the first time in his life, Prowl allowed himself the pleasure of speaking out. With every remark about Jazz’s visor, Prowl was swift to hush them. When a cousin made a comment regarding biased politics, he was quickly corrected. Thus far, no one appeared overly concerned with his newfound indignation. Prowl supposed that only proved how low a priority his opinions truly were.

He persisted through his familial obligations. After well over a joor of this, though, his patience was draining. The banquet hall was filled with nothing but expensive fuel and arrogant conversation, and Prowl listened in on those ignorant talks of confidence in politics and loyalties as he roamed.

Eventually, the noise became more than he was willing to bear. Prowl moved towards the group of tables on one end of the room, leaning against one so he could watch the crowd in the center of the floor. Jazz was surrounded by people and grinning brightly, but it was the kind of expression he only ever wore for the unyielding of mind. Those around him didn’t appear to catch how false his joy was. The few who could speak with Jazz did so with an air of superiority and mild curiosity, Jazz’s responses politely matching their tones.

His family would never know Jazz well enough to see it, but the glint of mischief in his bright visor was exceedingly noticeable to Prowl. His lover knew exactly the character he was to play and was enjoying the act thoroughly. No doubt there were passive corrections and subtle insults no one but Jazz would ever know of.

Such aggressions ran both ways, and Prowl listened in for the statements said behind Jazz’s awareness. They were all fairly tame, consisting mostly of passing agreements that Jazz spoke surprisingly well and seemed educated. Nothing Prowl was sure Jazz didn’t already suspect was said of him, and friends were a necessity, regardless, if they intended to get through the event and leave Praxus cordially.

Thoughts of the impending end of their excursion were set aside in favor of watching Jazz. Prowl homed in on every wave of his servos, every swish of his hips, every shift of his weight. His mind fled elsewhere, to memories of his room and the cool evening light illuminating Jazz’s soft smile.

Prowl hadn’t allowed himself the pleasure of thinking back to last night just yet. There were emotions he was still coming to understand and beliefs he was still struggling to finalize. Before last night, before Jazz in general, it was a seemingly impossible task to relinquish control to someone else, but Jazz was proving himself worthy of Prowl’s faith.

Phantom sensations sent shivers across his frame, making his doorwings flutter and plating clinch. Prowl quickly shifted in case someone noticed him twitch or where his gaze was locked.

That was another matter. True that the deal between the Autobots and Praxus was final and above his and Jazz’s actions now, but there were still consequences he’d face were their affair revealed, especially during such a public event. As much as he wished to stand by Jazz, to be held by him and surrounded by his charm, such actions would only do him harm.

Although, the debate could be had over how severe the consequences really were. What was worse? Potentially upsetting his family or remaining alone for the next few joors? Granted, the upset would likely force them both out the estate, but they were bound to leave soon and neither wanted to be here anyway. Prowl considered just what the immediate reactions would be if he were to walk over and let Jazz throw an arm around his shoulder. What would be said of him and his immediate family if they were to kiss in the middle of the crowd?

His spark spun a little faster. The thrill was tempting, and so much of him wanted to let go of the anxieties of what others might think. That simply wasn’t reasonable.

But nothing surrounding Jazz was, he rationalized. Jazz was a radical idealist who owned a bar in the shady part of downtown, not a capitalist mech with a stable career and wealth home. They were of different religions and cultures and vastly different ways of thinking. But as energic as Jazz was, there was something enticingly solid about him. And he was loud and vibrant and quick witted. He brought light and excitement into Prowl’s life while still being patient and steady in his morals. Jazz was nothing Prowl would have ever chosen for himself, and now the one thing he could no longer think to live without.

Prowl cycled his vents, his eyes never straying from the mech charming his way through life. That smile, that cocky stance, that steady presence. He loved them. He loved _Jazz_. Or, at the very least, was beginning to.

“Such a strange mech, would you agree?”

Prowl collected himself and his racing emotions, panicked Faze may have noticed a physical tell.

“Yes,” he said absently. “A very odd character, indeed.”

Faze settled himself next to Prowl, idly stroking his chin, and observed as Jazz was asked about his career in music. “What exactly are his intentions?”

Prowl glanced between his lover and his cousin, listening in as Jazz described his love of the art form. “He wishes to maintain a cordial relation with our nation.” When Faze’s optic twitched, unconvinced, he indicated the crowd and added, “Jazz’s methods appear to be working.”

“You always start with politics, Prowl,” Faze dismissed and gestured to Jazz and the crowd encouraging his discussion. “I ask what his intentions are here and now. The goal was completed, so why continue to pine for the approval of our family?”

There was a perfect answer to that, but one Faze would probably not accept. Prowl refocused on Jazz, searching for a passable explanation. His lover was grinning genuinely now, mischievous as it was. The Praxians around him remained unconvinced that a foreigner’s dance was anything compared to the sophistication of their culture’s, to which Jazz seemed far too smug about. By the time Prowl realized what his plan was, Jazz had already taken control of the floor and was swaying to the rhythm of the music flooding the banquet hall. A few beats to learn the tempo, and Jazz was moving fluidly with it.

Prowl was captivated as he recognized the style. Or rather, the deviance in Jazz’s usual energy and flair. This was quieter, an elegant rendition of the delighted dance he had performed in the crystal garden. A waltz to impress rather than a display of enjoyment.

Everyone else watching seemed to appreciate the clear attempt from an outsider to move as smoothly as they would, but Prowl was rigid with the knowledge of where it was learned. He could see the small aspects of Jazz’s character bleeding through in his movements and, more importantly, the space a partner was meant to fill.

Faze scoffed, jarring Prowl out of his daze. “That is all this mech amounts to, despite his best efforts. He will only ever be a poor imitation of us.”

Any self-control Prowl possessed completely abandoned him. He laughed, quiet at first but gaining volume as he realized his pride. Faze was right in that Jazz was falling shy of immolating this place and these people, but he was wrong to believe that was some hideous flaw.

Jazz didn’t pause, but he did glance over at Prowl’s sudden sound mixing in with the music and breaking the otherwise quiet room. His smile did nothing to help suppress the loss of control, only succeeding in making Prowl laugh harder as though they were in on the same joke. Once he regained his senses, Prowl caught the question in Jazz’s gaze, the not-so-subtle cock of his helm opening himself to Prowl’s assessment of his actions.

As Jazz continued his show, facing him whenever he could, Prowl considered putting an end to it. He could, with nothing more than a shake of his head. But Faze was already looking at him strangely, and others were shooting him disturbed glances. And what would containing Jazz gain either of them, anyway?

His conversation with Smokescreen came to mind and, with it, his brother’s anxieties. How much _was_ he actually risking? His family’s approval? His ability to return? His home? Those meant so much less to him now. Prowl feared to list the many ways the quality of his life had elevated since letting Jazz enter his life, knowing that would only overwhelm him.

This gathering was a mere two joors from its end, some guests already leaving to continue about their days. This entire trip was nearly over, their flight away from here scheduled directly after this.

When would the next opportunity arise to know with utter certainty what loving Jazz would do to him?

The pace Jazz had set was simple one to follow, matching the gliding sounds of the Praxian music. On the next beat, Prowl stepped forward with confidence and lowered his wings to signal his entry to the performance, discarding his garment to the ground in his wake. Jazz didn’t miss a moment. He directed his careful movements towards Prowl, tilting his helm to ask what the plan was now.

Prowl answered by picking up the pace in time with the swelling of the music. In one fluid action, he took Jazz’s hands and led them into a spin.

The bright room morphed into visions of crystals scattering light across their frames. Jazz drew them together, holding him the way he had in the garden. Now there was experience behind the touch. The hand at Prowl’s waist stayed clasped at his hip rather than his back, the digits digging into the seams to secure their place on him. Prowl did likewise as they fell into the dance. He snuck an arm behind Jazz’s helm as his other hand found its place intertwined with Jazz’s.

This was familiar now. The same security this embrace had always inspired, but senses were heightened with the emotions from their previous night resurfacing.

Prowl wondered absently when he had changed his tune. There was no preplanned choreography, just whatever motion came to mind. They knew the way they both moved, so each considered how best to incorporate the other. A glide here, a flourish there. Rejoin and regroup, then move apart again. Prowl couldn’t remember a time before now when he had been this degree of free. Perhaps he hadn’t, this kind of feeling unknown to him until Jazz taught him to release.

As they fell together again, Prowl finally began to register their surroundings. Over Jazz’s shoulder, he noticed looks of betrayal and confusion cumulating into horror as his family stared at him and Jazz pressed front-to-front, their hands still woven together.

They could raise whatever grievances they’d like, Prowl decided, he was not about to stop. And if the massive grin he was sporting was any indication, neither was Jazz.

Out of his peripheral, Prowl could see his carrier and the scared expression he wore. Whether that fear extended to him or not, Prowl knew Ray was running through all the ways his creation’s actions might damage his reputation. Prowl reminded himself, though, that there was a simple fix. If his creators did not recognize him as their son, then they would be spared his controversy.

The news would reel about the high-class creation taking on a foreign lover, but of what consequence was that to him? He and Jazz would have already left.

Jazz lifted their joined hands, dipping under the ach it created to twirl then stretch away. When Prowl tugged him back, they let themselves go flush once more, their frames fitting together as they had the night prior. Jazz dazzled him with a bright smile, his denta bared, and Prowl matched that with his own understated grin.

His mind was made. Long gone was the desire for a place he could never please and never agree with. Jazz was what he wanted. Jazz and all the love he freely gave him.

Prowl tightened his hold, bringing their helms closer. Jazz took the hint and eagerly released his hand to cup Prowl’s cheek and close the gap between them. Their mouths fit together, the kiss and the circumstance lending it to feel more akin to a dream. But Jazz’s plating rubbing against his and the emotions mingling in their fields were far too vivid to be anything but real.

He felt Jazz smile, the only signal he received before hands gripped his hips and he was tipped backward into a dip. Some time ago, he might have fought to regain his balance, but he was in Jazz’s arms. So, Prowl leaned back, holding Jazz close so as not to allow the kiss to break, letting his lover be his only support, his only insurance he would not collapse. His wings relaxed and fanned out into an open display of vulnerability.

Once Jazz righted them, Prowl realized the music had been cut off. He glanced around, taking in the silent shock and offense of his relatives. They were easy to ignore, though.

Prowl pulled away to bend into a polite bow, inclining his helm in a mockery of respect, and Jazz followed suit beside him.

“So, yes,” Jazz spoke up. “I can, in fact, dance.”

From somewhere in the crowd, Prowl heard the distinctive sound of his brother choking on laughter. Whether Smokescreen was impressed or surprised, Prowl wasn’t sure. He didn’t have much time to dedicate to the thought, anyway, as Dreadnaught pushed himself between him and Jazz.

“My sincerest apologies,” Dreadnaught began, addressing the gathered mechs. “You all have every right to take offense to Prowl’s actions. Rest assured, the matter shall be dealt with.”

No other warning was given. Dreadnaught grabbed his arm from under his garment, squeezing the plating with enough force to scratch the paint off. When he began to walk off, Prowl had no choice other than to follow.

“Not a word,” his sire hissed, tugging him towards the exist hidden behind a crystal sculpture in the corner of the room.

Prowl didn’t respond, instead he looked back for Jazz, not bothering to be subtle in his search. He couldn’t see his lover over his shoulder, but the air near his doorwings shifted as if someone was dangerously close to his backside. A yank to his arm forced Prowl to refocus to their destination, but a familiar hand tapped his side, letting him know he wasn’t alone.

Dreadnaught directed them through the obscured doorway and into the adjacent hall. Once relieved of observers, he rounded on his son.

“Do you have any idea what you have done?” he demanded, his usually stoic exterior cracking under his anger. Prowl was about to respond when his sire glanced to something just behind him. “He has no place in this conversation.”

Prowl lowered his wings so he could see Jazz, who was standing close enough to embrace him from behind. His lover just grinned awkwardly, feigning coolness.

“Take it he don’t want to see my handsome face?” he asked, dropping all pretenses and letting his thick accent smooth his words.

“What did he say to me?” Dreadnaught asked, genuine confusion mixing into his offense. “Primus spare him, he can’t even speak his own language.”

Prowl turned back to his sire to scowl at him. Switching to standard, he retorted, “If you will not speak in a manner Jazz will understand, then he will extend to you the same curtesy.”

Dreadnaught grit his denta before relenting. “Leave us,” he said in standard, “I will have a word with my creation, and meanwhile you will remain out of sight of my guests.”

Jazz scoffed. “Mech, anything you say is going to come back to me anyway. No way am I leaving Prowler.”

“I’m fine,” Prowl countered, glancing over his shoulder and catching Jazz’s worried face. “Finish our packing. I’ll find you when we’re done here.”

The suggestion was completely worthless seeing as they had been ready to leave since much earlier that morning, and by the look on Jazz’s face, he was well aware he had been brushed aside. Still, as unconvinced as he was, Jazz begrudgingly took the hint.

“I’ll be in your room,” he said, wrapping his arms around Prowl’s waist in a brief hug. Prowl tilted his helm when Jazz made to place a kiss to his neck before he walked away, all the while maintaining eye contact with his sire.

They stood in silence as the melody of Jazz’s steps echoed down the hall, growing quieter and quieter. Dreadnaught made no move other than to cross his arms and raise his wings. The display gave his stature a heightened appearance and brought Prowl back to a time when his sire towered over him. The weight of his disapproval remained as much a constant as his glower and imposing optics.

Prowl’s actions finally caught up with him. His sire seemed impossibly tall and out of reach. Looking up into the eyes staring down at him, he saw the last spec of light his sire had for him dim into an empty gaze.

Jazz fiddled with his crystal garden, trying to ignore his rising anxiety. The transport was as dark and containing as usual and filled with enough tension to suffocate a mech. Beside him, Prowl remained eerily still. Jazz wanted some of his lover’s composure to rub off on him, but the quiet only heightened the crinkling in his core.

The journey between the gates of Praxus and Prowl’s home seemed to take far longer than it had cycles ago despite the lack of stops, courtesy of their police escort. Jazz suppressed the urge to look out the narrow window, well aware it was too high up to see through. He wanted so badly to take a peek at the enforcers, to know what he was up against. But that would just have to wait.

Not soon enough, the transport came to a slow stop. Through the narrow windows, the soft blue light from the beautiful crystal structures shone on the crystals in his lap, scattering the light throughout the space. Eventually, the back door opened, but they continued to wait until Dreadnaught stood and exited first.

Once his sire’s back was turned to them, Prowl shifted to bump his arm against Jazz’s. That didn’t do much of anything to change the atmosphere, but the little reassurance that Prowl wasn’t broken eased his racing mind. He looked up to gaze at that handsome face, dazzling his lover with a smile, and was rewarded with a small upturn in Prowl’s mouth. It was cute and so normal, especially compared to everything else around them.

An enforcer knocked on the transport’s frame and waved for the pair to move along. Prowl rose first, cautiously and fanning his wings like he was trying to block the enforcer’s view of Jazz. The gesture was well-meaning, but as soon as Prowl was out, the enforcer had a clean view of him.

His anxiety doubled when the other Praxian fixed his gaze on him. Those eyes were cold and empty, the weapon in his hand held taunt. It was a conscious effort to remain calm, to not appear suspicious. Jazz had been in worse situations before, but at least in Iacon, he knew which enforcers were liable to shoot first. Here, though? All he could really do was rely on faith.

When Jazz settled himself outside the transport, he quickly glanced around at the other guards. Six in total, and only two were in bipedal mode. They were situated on either side of the transport, as if to prevent him or Prowl from crawling back in. The rest scattered themselves in the opened gateway, protecting the whole of Praxus.

That was a relief just knowing the enforcers were more concerned with anyone fighting to return to the city than anything else. His anxiety ebbing away, Jazz gave the group a short wave then made a point to turn around and follow Prowl to the shuttle.

Dreadnaught was situated in his path, so Jazz shot him a polite grin for good measure. He was, apparently, not one for farewells. Prowl’s sire stood like a rod had been shoved up his backside, his servos clasped behind himself beneath his flowing garment. His glower was something fierce, but at least it was directed at the shuttle docked on the strip and not either of them.

Prowl was behaving likewise and refused to acknowledge his sire. As soon as the shuttle was in his sight, he had stalked toward it without another glance back at the still-open gates. Jazz couldn’t pretend to be so finite. He stared back into the strange world incased in walls, at the six police guarding it and the sire determined to ensure his son would leave, wondering how any of it had produced someone he loved.

But still, there were great moments hidden within. A number of firsts they could never recreate. Jazz tightened his hold on the little garden Prowl had purchased for him, reminiscing on how wonderful that morning had been.

“Thank you,” he said to the stoic Praxian, “for letting me into your home.”

Dreadnought didn’t so much as twitch. “I am grateful this has found its end.”

Jazz didn’t disagree, so he just nodded as a reply. When he turned around to follow after Prowl, the sight of a familiar paint job was relieving beyond measure. He hadn’t realized, after cycles of driving about in lifeless vehicles, how much he longed for the company of other people.

Forgetting about the judgmental Praxian watching their every move, Jazz caught up with Prowl, patting the warm steal of the shuttle’s frame like they were old friends.

“’Chopper, was it?” he asked, smiling even though he knew he wasn’t in the shuttle’s view. “How you been, mech?”

“I wasn’t sure you’d recognize me,” he admitted, the Vosian accent a welcome sound. “Been well. Fairly smooth decacycle so far. And you?”

Jazz made a dismissive noise as he gripped the entryway’s frame and pulled himself into the cargo space. Prowl was shaking his helm at him fondly, avoiding eye-contact as he began handing Jazz their belongings least they pause their escape to laugh.

Still, even once Jazz had moved the few items to the storage compartments, Prowl remained at the entrance, staring at ‘Chopper’s metal floors. There was an intense gleam in his optics that made him seem so far away, so Jazz approached him slowly, gentling grounding his lover with a hand on his shoulder.

“You good, babe?”

Prowl nodded a few times before the motion morphed into the negative. “I don’t know what it is I am experiencing.”

“Don’t blame you,” Jazz agreed, squeezing the shoulder plating. “But come on in. The sooner we get back, the sooner we can scrub that paint off you.”

The smile he wore didn’t have much of an impact. Prowl looked up from the floor only to set his gaze on the city behind him and his sire still standing by their transport with the enforcers, waiting for the pair to leave. After a moment more to soak in the city of crystals, Prowl yanked his view away and walked in.

The cabin was vacant save the pair, so they were able to take the same seats from the prior flight. With Prowl settled by the window and their things secured, Jazz addressed ‘Chopper. “Ready when you are, mech!”

“It should only be a moment,” the flyer said.

Jazz fell into the seat next to his lover, the ice in his systems still preventing him from becoming completely comfortable. He couldn’t deny, though, how good it felt to know their lives would be returning to normal. Well, a new, better kind of normal.

Prowl didn’t seem to be paying him any bit of attention, so Jazz managed to stretch an arm around him without much notice. When Prowl still didn’t react after being tugged closer to his side, Jazz realized how off he really was.

“Hey,” he called out, squeezing Prowl a little in the one-arm hug. “It’s a beautiful place.”

No response.

“It _did_ make the most beautiful person in the world.”

Not even a wing flick.

Jazz frowned at the back of Prowl’s head and leaned over to see what his line of sight was so captivated by. Dreadnaught and the police were nowhere in their window’s view. Instead, they could see the tops of crystal spires peeking out from behind the city wall.

“Yeah,” Jazz agreed, catching on to what might be troubling him. “I wish we’d have gotten the chance to do a little more sight-seeing, too. If that garden is anything to go by, this place has some amazing landscapes.”

Finally, Prowl’s front was broken by a curt nod.

Encouraged, Jazz tried to continue. “Not to say the city wasn’t pretty. Or your family or anything. They all had their moments. And I’m glad you got a chance to catch up with people.”

Prowl stiffened in his hold and just nodded again.

That was the wrong thing to say then, but at least he now he knew what was on Prowl’s mind. Not that it should have been a surprise, anyway. Their charade this morning had turned several heads and no doubt resulted in a severe scolding for Prowl. Not that either of them regretted it, or at least, Jazz didn’t. It was thrilling just showing up the other Praxians, Prowl joining in just highlighted that.

Still, there were repercussions that now impacted Prowl’s entire demeanor. He didn’t want to upset him further, though, so Jazz just sat back and waited for Prowl to speak.

It wasn’t until ‘Chopper began taking off, rising higher and higher above Praxus, that Prowl finally caved.

“I didn’t visit with my creators extensively outside of our joint interactions with them.”

Jazz rubbed the shoulder in his grip, trying to loosen the tight plating. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Prowl said, eyes still trained on the landscape beneath them. “They had the opportunity. If they had wanted to socialize with me, they could have, as Smokescreen did. It simply wasn’t a priority.” He broke his staring contest with the window to look over at Jazz.

There was far more to his upset than this longing for family interaction, that much was clear. Jazz didn’t want to say a word, though, and risk pushing Prowl away. So, he lent his free hand to Prowl, squeezing his lover’s hand when it was taken.

“My creators know of our dealings with this revolution,” Prowl explained. “They don’t disagree with the alliance we have forged, but they do not care for the company I keep.”

“Especially not me.”

“Yes, they think very lowly of you.”

“They never let it on that they knew something, though?”

Prowl shifted so he was facing Jazz more. “They know. I…there were…overseers, if you will. A network of people observing me ever since I left, ensuring that I maintained the reputation a high caste heir ought to have. Their knowledge of my ventures with you and the others would have reached my creators long before we arrived. It was their assessment of me that determined whether I—and by extension, you—were allowed to enter Praxus.”

It took a moment for the information to sink in, but once it had, the behaviors and worries that had seemed so strange to Jazz now began to make sense.

“When you said you had to leave,” he said, slowly to allow Prowl to interject any corrections, “that you’d destroy your family if you stayed and joined us. I didn’t realize they were watching you.” He searched Prowl’s face for any indication he was on the right train of thought. “That’s why you wanted to return home?”

Prowl nodded solemnly, dropping his gaze to their intertwined hands. “My mistakes have accumulated, our act was merely the tipping point. That is why my sire wished to speak with me in private. To deny me my citizenship in Praxus.”

Jazz’s mouth tried to form words of comfort, but his vocalized felt clogged. All he could get out was a pathetic sounding, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Prowl dismissed, squeezing his hand tighter like a lifeline. “I am the one who chose opportunity over traditions. I chose this cause over my loyalties to home.” He lifted his gaze briefly, only to lean forward to bump their foreheads together. “I chose someone who cares for me over people who never gave me their approval. This was my decision. All you did was open my eyes.”

That was a burden Jazz wasn’t sure he was prepared to carry. But as their fields mingled together, Prowl’s warmth enveloping him, he let their shared desire for devotion fill him with confidence. Prowl had a point that this outcome was all on him, but that didn’t stop Jazz from feeling responsible in some way.

“Still,” he offered, “losing family isn’t an easy thing. I’m just sorry this happened.”

“As I said, this was a long time coming,” Prowl explained. He cycled his vents, blowing warm air on Jazz. “My sire referenced my immigration to Iacon and affiliation with external politics as his main reasons for letting me go. I think he intended to exile me by the end of our trip, regardless.”

Jazz felt rather than saw Prowl’s wings being to rise and fall in a nervous pattern, causing his body to shift in little motions. His lover was explaining the factual details, yes, but there was a stronger emotion within him that Prowl refused to acknowledge. Jazz repositioned to pull Prowl towards him until the Praxian’s side was flush against his, their heads on each other’s shoulders.

They remained wrapped in each other for a long moment, Prowl tightening his grip gradually as time moved on. When he spoke, it was with a voice made thick and heavy by the realization of his circumstance. “I knew this was how this trip would pan out. I knew, and I prepared myself for it.”

“I got no doubt you did, Prowler.”

“I just—just hoped that if I redeemed myself I might…” Prowl shook his head and buried his face in Jazz’s neck. “This was the last time I will ever return to Praxus.”

“It’s a little bitter, a little sweet.”

“Yes, to put it mildly. Thank you, though, for making even sweeter memories there with me.”

Jazz pulled back slightly to press a soft kiss to Prowl’s cheek. “Always my pleasure.”

Prowl shook his head again, leaning back to regain his resolve. “Besides. I can’t have lost something that, lately, has not been mine.” He favored Jazz with a thoughtful look.

Catching on, Jazz grinned right back him. “We’ll make something even better. You and me.”

“And my brother,” Prowl added, glancing behind himself at the window no longer looking out over Praxus. “Somehow I doubt he will be willing to detach himself from us once he has lost access to our family.”

“I’m game,” Jazz laughed. “He cool with it all?”

“He is what you would call ‘shady’ but is on my side, yes.”

“There we go then!” Jazz slouched back, arm still wrapped around his lover. “You, me, and your shady brother making a living during a revolution.”

“Yes,” Prowl agreed, settling in the embrace. “Sounds quite thrilling.”

Jazz beamed up at him. “You’ll be good?”

“All in time,” he admitted. His optics brightened just a fraction, held-in moisture leaking out slightly. When he smiled his soft, humble grin, it was with a mixture of far too many conflicting emotions for Jazz to name. “Right now, I’m just ready to be home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read this fic the whole way through, especially those who left kudos, bookmarked or subscribed, or wrote a comment! The kind and encouraging responses I received made my heart so happy!
> 
> If you enjoyed this story and the universe it's in, all my work exists in the same timeline. So, this is only part of Prowl's and Jazz's stories, and a very small part of the overall plot I have in the making. Any questions this fic left unanswered will be addressed in time.
> 
> Thank you all again! Stay safe! Stay kind!


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